


And Then There Were Two...

by zombie_socks



Series: Island of Misfit Boys [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bullying, Clint's a Kid, Foster Care AU, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sequel, Steve's a kid, Tony has a knack for trouble, comics love orphans, deaf!Clint, violence towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the second installment in the Island of Misfit Boys series. </p><p>Two and a half years after Phil adopted Clint, life is going pretty well. But the boat gets rocked when one of Coulson's counseling cases  - Steve Rogers - is orphaned, and forced into the foster care system. Phil signs on as temporary custody while he searches for a special needs home for Steve to stay at permanently. But can Clint and Steve get along long enough for Phil to find a home? And what happens when Clint's past starts to catch up to him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Philip Coulson had dreamed of adventure since he was old enough to walk. The only son of an accountant and librarian, the boy had grown up quiet, academic, nebbish, the kind of boy who would be picked last for sports, if at all. But that never stopped him from imagining himself as a ruthless pirate, a valiant superhero, a threatening mob boss, or a gritty Chicago PI. And his imagination had the best trainer.

Samuel Dawson, Phil’s only cousin, was five years older than Phil, but the pair was inseparable. The older boy was most fond of, if not devoted to, his younger cousin. They spent many afternoons in the summer together, reading books, playing games, and searching for adventure. Where Phil was quiet and shy, Sam was outgoing, charming, a true character worthy of an epic story. The boys would talk of the adventures that awaited them in their futures for hours on end, each encouraging the other to dream bigger, stretch further, shine brighter.

When he was eighteen, Sam enlisted in the army, his thirst for a bigger life outside of the small town, in which they had their roots, too great to resist. Phil promised to follow him when he was old enough.

But the arrival of a condemning letter put an end to dreams of adventure and heroism. Samuel Dawson had been killed in action: a land mine detonation. There was no medal, no Purple Heart. Just another soldier buried in a grave and a small family left to be a little smaller. Phil stopped dreaming of exploration, of pirates and superheroes, of PIs and mob leaders. The boy who spent most of his time alone was truly all by himself.

He began volunteering at the VA in honor of Sam’s service, assisting veterans, hearing their stories, and remembering the sacrifice of all those who had ended up the same way as his cousin. He learned of the dirt and the fear and horror of war, and swore then that he would work in anyway to oppose the force of destruction that it was. Where others would take life, he would save it.

The young man was far too squeamish around blood to be a doctor, didn’t possess enough charisma to be a lawyer, nor did he have enough longing of travel left to join the Peace Corp. So he settled in social work, putting his kind heart and tolerance of paperwork to use, helping children in desperate need of someone to believe in them.

Fresh out of collage, he applied for a position in Portland. And although he didn’t get the job, he found a far greater adventure waiting for him.

 

Audrey Nathan was running late for a recital with the Portland Symphony. Her car had a flat tire and was pulled over to the side of the road. She watched in horror as car after car sped past her, none of which offering her any help. She didn’t have a phone on her and the nearest available landline was three miles or better away.

With a defeated sigh she slammed her hands against the steering wheel and then proceeded to slump down it, placing her forehead on the top and rolling her head back and forth on the wheel, crying repeatedly, “Why me?”

Suddenly there was a knock at the window, causing her to jump slightly. A man was standing there, his brow knitted together as he looked at her with concerned and curious brown eyes.

“You okay?” he asked as she rolled down her window.

“No. My tire’s flat and I’m late and I have a solo in the last piece and this was supposed to be my big moment and-”

She stopped her rambling short when she saw the man opening her door and standing to the side of it, looking at her expectantly.

He shrugged. “If you need a ride, I’ll take you.”

“Really? I mean – You sure?”

“It’s no trouble. Really. I don’t have anything else going on anyway.” There was note of disappointment in his tone at that and she filed it away to possibly ask about later.  

Conscious of her pepper spray in her purse should this turn on her, and her cello bulky in its case, she allowed the man to get the trunk and then passenger side door of his car open for her and she slid in. He ran around to his side, closed his own door, strapped in, and turned on the ignition.

“Where to?” he asked.

“The symphony hall.” She took in his confused expression and then added, “I’ll guide you.”

They drove for a bit before he remarked, “Classical, huh?”

“Yes. Cello.”

“Oh, right, you loaded that in the trunk…” he cleared this throat, regaining composure. “How long have you been playing?”  

She had to grin at his countenance and how it played with his gentle brown eyes. “Two years with the symphony next month.” After a beat she added, “I’m Audrey, by the way.”

“Phil,” he returned, smiling. Audrey couldn’t help but like that smile, or really, anything about him. He was a nice-looking man, young, clean-shaven. He had been, so far, polite, even chivalrous. Plus he had been the only one to offer her any kind of assistance.

They talked some more on the trip; general questions were asked, and she received an answer to his earlier disappointment: his not getting the job he’d flown out to interview for. By the time she arrived – only ten minutes late by that point – Audrey found herself regrettably having to say good-bye. And in a fit of uncharacteristic forwardness, she dug around in her bag for a pen and scribbled her phone number on his hand.

Phil called her the next day.

Two years later they were married.

 

Cora Nathan cried as her only daughter and youngest of three children said “I do” to the man who had been kind enough to rescue her Audrey off the side of the road. She adored Phil – kind, gentle, smart Phil with the big, soft heart. She only wished he wasn’t taking Audrey so far away from Portland.

Cora Nathan cried when she held her grandson for the first time.

Jude.

Appropriately named after the saint who aided those with lost causes – much like the boy’s father. He was a perfect fit in her arms and reminded her of holding her boys when they were born. She was elated at the image that was her daughter cradling her grandson, being kissed on the cheek by her son-in-law. She hated to see them go, but understood: Phil had work in the morning; Audrey had a recital later that week.

Cora Nathan cried when the voice on the other end of the phone explained the tragedy of the accident to her and offered condolences.

Cora Nathan cried at the funeral where they buried her daughter and grandson. Afterwards she packed up the remainders of Audrey’s belongings and put them in a box labeled, _Phil?_ that over time made its way up into the attic.

There it sat, collecting dust for many years.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a picture of their wedding day that Phil was holding in his hands now. It had come from a box that had been sent to his workplace with a note.

_Found this in the attic and wondered if there was anything in here you wanted to keep. I didn’t know whether or not you had moved so I hope you don’t mind me sending it to your workplace, thinking that someone there would forward it to you wherever you were. We miss you, Phil. Call us sometime._

_\- Cora_

He glanced at his phone with the intention of doing just that when there was a knock at his office door.

Phil pushed the box under his desk before permitting entrance.

“Aw, Mr. Phillips,” Coulson greeted as he stood up to shake the lawyer’s hand. “How are you?”

“Fine, Coulson.” He set down his brief case on Phil’s desk and then snapped it open, pulling out a thick file. He handed the file off to Phil before closing his case and taking a seat across from the counselor.

Coulson glanced over the file with a frown. “Poor Steve. Both parents gone within the span of two years.” He sighed. “It’s sad.”

“It’s a relief,” Phillips objected. “The kid was taking care of his mother all by himself for more than five years with his daddy off at war. He was eight and she was sick. Now he’s thirteen and she’s dead. He can get on with his life while he still has one.”

Coulson wanted to argue but held his tongue. Chester Phillips was a hard ass and a cynic, but a damn fine lawyer. And while his people skills were lacking, he had a strong sense of morality and balance. But in the case of Steven Rogers, that balance was a bit out of whack. The man had become close to the family since he’d first handled the final affairs at Steve’s father’s funeral. He’d followed the case loyally and had gotten emotionally invested in it. That is what explained his callousness now; he was compensating and Phil knew that.

“I take it this doesn’t contain any good news,” Coulson guessed, setting the file down on his desk and shoving it away like it was infected.

“No. The will was an old draft so custody of the kid was given to an elderly relative that’s no longer alive. And right now the kid’s staying with Mrs. Wilson, but she’d like, eighty-nine, half-blind, and on more medication than an entire nursing home put together. She can barely take care of herself, Phil, let alone a teenager. In fact, Steve’s spending more time taking care of her than she is of him and I’m sorry, but that isn’t going to work. And what happens when she dies, huh? We’ll be right back where we are now and that’s facing a choice I know neither of us want to make.”

And there it was: the truth that was blatant and painful. Steve was an orphan now. After years of nursing his ailing mother along, suffering through the turmoil of her poor health right after the death of his father, Steve was now alone. And with no stated custody…

“The kid has to enter the system,” Phil all but whispered. 

Both men sighed almost in unison. Another kid left without someone to care for him. Another number for the state to keep track of.

Phillips scrubbed at his jaw with his hand. “What are we looking at here, Phil?”

“As his case worker, I’ll have to put him in the state’s records. Then we’ll start screening for a family. With his asthma and diabetes I could probably put him in for special needs.”

“And what will that do?”

“Sadly, limit our options. But it can also help us weed out a better place for him to stay, someone maybe with the skills and knowledge to care for his conditions more astutely. But all that will cost time.”

“Something the kid doesn’t have much of.”

“Ches-”

“Phil, what if he as an asthma attack and can’t get to his inhaler? Huh? She won’t be able to help him and you and I both know it. We can’t take our sweet ‘ole time to find him somewhere to go; he needs a place _now_.”

Phil nodded in understanding as the lawyer took a second to calm down. He truly was invested in his case.

“We could put him in temporary custody. I’ve been point on his case for two years now and would be glad to take him in until we can find him a place. Deal?”

The lawyer stared at Phil for a moment but relented easily. “Okay.” He picked up the file he had handed Phil earlier and shoved it into his now opened briefcase. “When will he be out of Wilson’s place?”

“I’ll put a rush on the paperwork and get him released by next week.”

The lawyer gave a curt little nod and then stuck his hand out for another shake.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Phillips scoffed. “Only as long as you take your own advice.” They shook and Phillips left.

 

During his regular session with Steve, Phil brought up the conversation he’d had with the lawyer and asked Steve if he’d be willing to enter his temporary custody.

The kid nodded but then hesitated.

“Something wrong?” the counselor inquired.

“It’s just… well, Mrs. Wilson… her memory isn’t very good. She really needs someone to look after her.”

“Steve, that’s for her family to worry about. Not you. Okay?”

The kid’s eyes drifted to the side and his mouth turned down.

“Steve, what if you have an asthma attack or your blood sugar gets out of whack and you can’t take care of yourself. She might not be able to. Do you understand? It’s not safe for you there.”

The kid still didn’t look at him.

Coulson sighed but added, “I promise I’ll talk to her family about getting her some care, okay?”

Steve smiled gently. “Thanks, Mr. Coulson.”

“Good. I’ll pull the paperwork and get it started. You should be in temp custody by next week.”

The door opened suddenly, the person on the other side still knocking as he entered. “Phil, it’s time to go,” the intruder announced as he clung to the doorknob and balanced on his toes, effectively riding the door’s swing as it opened.

“Okay, be right out,” Phil answered with a grin tugging at his lips.

“Holding ya to it,” the intruder jibed, returning the door to its pervious position with him on the other side.

Coulson shook his head but smiled wide. At Steve’s slightly raised brow he filled in, “Clint. My son. I adopted him… about two and half years ago.” That last part left him a little amazed. Had it really been that long since the boy had come in and taken over his life in the best way possible?

“You’ll have to excuse his impatience,” Phil went on. “He usually isn’t this antsy but he has an important appointment we have to get to. Do you mind cutting our session just a little early?”       

“Not at all.”

“You have a ride home?”

“I rode my bike.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you Monday, Steve.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Coulson.” Steve gathered his things, as did Phil, and the pair left the office together, Phil locking the door behind them. Clint was outside, sitting in a chair by the door, his feet swinging in the space they were suspended from. For going on eleven, the kid was still rather short. But he’d filled out a little, his ribs no longer visible. The doctor had said that the kid’s lack of nutrition in his early years would probably affect his growth some.

“Ready?” Phil asked as Clint hopped down from the chair and made his way to his side.

The kid nodded and they strolled out to the parking lot. 

“See you next week, Mr. Coulson,” Steve bade as he separated from them and made his way to the bike rack.

Clint and Phil loaded up into the car. But the boy was uncharacteristically silent on the trip to the doctor’s office, so after Phil parked and the pair rounded the front of the car, he took a moment to place his hand on the back of Clint’s neck and squeeze it gently for comfort.

“It’ll be fine, Clint,” he affirmed.

“I know,” the boy answered back, rubbing at his nose almost defensively. “Let’s go.”

And Coulson had to admire the bravery, even if it was mostly artificial.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; look at me, starting things off with a cliff hanger right away. How dare I. 
> 
> Anyway...  
> Hi everyone!!!   
> Welcome back and thank you again to all who read, commented, kudos-ed, and bookmarked For Only a Few Weeks. I hope you enjoy this installment just as much. :)


	3. Chapter 3

There were several tests to go through and it took a little bit, but after awhile Clint came back out with Dr. Streiten at his heels. The M.D. invited Phil back for a short consultation, asking Clint to sit outside.

“Everything all right, doc,” Phil asked hesitantly as he sat down across from the doctor.

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Coulson. Your son is actually incredibly lucky. Most people who go through that kind of physical trauma come out of it with one hundred percent permanent hearing loss. In Clint’s case, his partial hearing is an abnormality that he should be grateful for. However, it has… I don’t want to say ‘gotten worse’ because that’s too dramatic. But it has decreased just enough to call attention.”

“What are you saying, doc?”

“I’m saying that we need to really keep an eye out on him. Something’s causing his partial hearing to go down in percentage. And I’m not so sure it’s not his seizures.”

Phil sighed wearily but kept his eyes on the doctor before him.

Streiten continued. “His medical record indicates that he’s had four since he’s been in your care. Do you know if he had any before that?”

Phil shook his head. “Unfortunately his medical records before he was eight are pretty patchy. And Clint’s not exactly forthcoming when it involves his health. I think that comes from being told that if he’s sick he’s weak. The kid won’t even own up to a cold.”

Dr. Streiten frowned deeply and practically scolded, “It would be a great service to all of us if you could work with him on that.”

Phil tried not to get too upset at that remark. He _had_ tried to convince Clint that hiding illness only hurt him more, but the kid was stubborn. And he was damn good at keeping his sicknesses concealed. It only disturbed Phil further to realize that Clint had had practice at doing so. And enough of it to be that good at it.

“The medical records also reported that there was no known cause for the past three seizures.”

“That’s true,” Phil answered. “But the doctor said that sometimes patients can be set up for them from the first one. Like aftershocks from an earthquake.”

“And the first one was caused by inflammation, correct?”

Coulson nodded.

“Well if they keep up he might have to go on some medication. And I would recommend it seeing as the seizures might be damaging his hearing.”

Another nod. But Phil didn’t necessarily want to drug Clint up, and besides, the kid would probably put up resistance to any meds. The kid rarely even took a Tylenol.

And as to the unexplained seizures, Phil had an unofficial theory. The first one had happened because Clint had hit his head from tossing around while in the throes of a nightmare. And while the kid had informed him that he didn’t remember the dream, Phil suspected what it had been about.

Jackson Parker.

Jackson Parker and the blood that was on Clint’s hands.

But the kid was innocent on every level; it had been an act of self-defense. Still, it didn’t mean that Clint didn’t blame himself to a degree or that the sight of Jackson’s cracked skull spilling blood hadn’t haunted him since it happened. So he had the nightmare, thrashed around, and hit his temple, causing the previous injury that had originally cost him most of his hearing, to become aggravated. And while he had no medical proof, Phil suspected that every seizure after that was connected to the same dream, a dream Clint himself admitted to having before. A dream that scared him so thoroughly and deeply that it caused his mind and body to retaliate.

“In any case,” Dr. Steiten went on, changing the subject. “Clint needs new hearing aids. The earhook is cracked in the left one, his molding no longer fits, and they’ll have to be recalibrated for his decreased percentage.”

Phil pressed his lips into a straight line and prayed that the insurance would help cover this. He knew they wouldn’t. And his annual salary was enough to survive on, but with added expenses...

With hesitancy he quietly asked, “Is there a payment plan we could set up?”

His worry must have been more visible than he realized because the doctor, rubbed at his eyes and heaved a sigh.

“Tell you what, Phil. I have a couple of trial pairs in the back. I can give you a set for now. We’ll go ahead and get his molding and measurements done today and have them ready for whenever you are.” The M.D. scribbled something on the chart in front of him. “In the meantime, continue to give his ears a break. He told me you two sign at home now?”

“Yeah. We learned it together so he didn’t have to wear them all the time.” They had checked out books from the library, watched videos online, even attended a seminar at a local community college. It had amazed Phil to watch Clint silently take in this new language. And the payoff had been tenfold when Clint was finally able to take out his aids at home and still communicate with Phil. But Phil was most proud of the day that they’d given each other name signs. Clint’s was a fingerspelled H moved horizontally over the signer’s eyes. Hawkeye. And Phil’s was a P swung back and forth over one shoulder. Phil wasn’t sure what it stood for, but Clint had given it to him and that’s all he needed.

“Good,” the doctor finished, accenting the word with a click of his pen. “I’ll have the nurse set you up with the trial pair before you leave. See you soon.”

Phil left the office and made his way to the waiting room where he told Clint that he’d be getting a temporary set of aids. The nurse called them back shortly after, quick-molded the kid’s ears, and once they were set, gave Clint the new hearing aids. He fiddled with them a bit, and they had to run them through a couple of tests, but the boys were out of the office by dinnertime.

 _Ready to go?_ Phil signed when they were finally released.

Clint nodded, packed up his backpack, and slung it over one shoulder. He did that now. The one shoulder thing. Before he would have balanced it on both, distributed the weight properly. But the one shoulder was cool, or at least that’s what Phil had gathered. And as Clint walked in front of him, Coulson rolled his eyes at the backpack’s position, grinning all the while.

The ride home was mostly silent until Phil cleared his throat and carefully broached the next subject that required attention.

“You know one of my students, Steve; I think I’ve mentioned him before.”

“Yeah,” Clint answered. “The one who really needed a hug?” The response had a hint of snark in it, but the counselor let it roll off of him, so used to it by now that it barely had power.

“Well he needs a place to stay for a while.”

“And you volunteered,” the kid guessed, a knowing look in his eye. But that look, for all of its usual sarcasm, withered at the edges. That was what Phil had been afraid of. His last temporary case had become permanent. And Coulson guessed that that thought had crossed Clint’s mind too.

With a weight in his tone, Phil commanded, “Clint, look at me.” He was met with bright blue-grey eyes that were expectant and slightly afraid. Phil continued. “Steve needed my help so I offered it, just like I did with you. But I’m not… replacing you. Okay?”

Clint nodded but his cheeks were stained with light pink at the embarrassment of Phil so clearly knowing what he was thinking. And although deep down, Clint knew, _knew_ , there was no way Phil would ever try to find someone to take his place, the insecurity had still been there. And he was ashamed at it.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Phil rested the other on the kid’s shoulder and Clint’s universe came back into focus at his next words. “You’re my son, Clint. And I love you more than anything in this world.”

The kid smiled and simply replied with his hand, middle two fingers bent inward; thumb, index, and pinky extended.

 

They discussed the changes that would have to be made over dinner. Clint looked a little put out about having to share a room, but made no comment on the matter.

Over the weekend, the pair rearranged Clint’s room so that it would be able to occupy two boys instead of one. Clint moved his clothes into the top two drawers of the dresser, and condensed his closet to one side. Phil was grateful for the fact that both boys didn’t have much in the way of possessions.

Once that was done, Phil took Clint with him into the attic. The kid scampered up the stairs easily and was smiling when, with great reluctance, Phil joined him in the small space above the house.

“What’re we looking for?” the boy asked, already balancing across wooden planks that served as a pathway. The place smelled of damp wood and was barely lit by the naked bulb that hung down from the spine of the roof’s uppermost beam. Spider webs dangled freely from the ribs of the support beams and gathered in tight, white clusters in the corners.

“Two bed posts,” Phil replied, looking around the cramped space, trying to remember where he’d deposited them. “They match the frame of your bed, so dark and metallic-”

“Like these?” The boy’s finger was barely visible – like the rest of him – from his position on the other side of the attic as Phil.

“Those are it. Can you carry them over here, please?”

The boy tossed his shoulders in a loose shrug. “Sure.” He reached for the posts, grabbing them both before Phil told him to take it one at a time. Clint rolled his eyes, but took the man’s advice.

With some maneuvering both head and footboards were in Clint’s room. Phil dethatched the small plastic baggie from one of them and opened it, laying out the pegs on the dresser. It only took a moment for Clint to arrive at the conclusion that Phil had been waiting for him to make.

“It’s a bunk bed.”

Coulson nodded, a grin on his features.

Clint’s eyes were bright at that. “Can I have top?”

“I’m surprised you even bothered to ask. I was figuring you would just take it and let all other options fly out the window.”

Clint grinned devilishly.

After some work and coordination, the bed had its second story, already covered in Clint’s sheets, Hawkeye watching diligently from his new vantage point.

They would retrieve the other mattress from the attic tomorrow and make up the other bed later. For now, Phil just wanted Clint to get used to sleeping at a new height – although, he didn’t think it would be much of an issue; hell, the kid would probably sleep better.

What did surprise him was that the boy had yet to ask why Phil had a second bed already in stock. Not that the answer was something cryptic; he and Audrey had talked numerous times about having another kid and the bed had been on sale from the local college renovating its dorms. But this was the first time it had ever been used, and as he went off to bed, Phil couldn’t help but remember the dream that he’d had years ago of Audrey holding his hand and remarking on the perfection of their family had it included Clint. While the “family” now was smaller and soon to be hosting a special needs foster kid, Phil couldn’t help but think that maybe it would still be its own kind of perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case you can't tell, I'm not a doctor. Let's just agree to roll with things seeing as it's an AU and I can make stuff up. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You guys are amazing!


	4. Chapter 4

Phillips dropped off Steve later the following week. Phil met the boy at the door, tossing a wave to the lawyer as he unloaded Steve’s bike from the roof of his car and then drove off. Phil ushered the newcomer inside and told him to head on upstairs and unpack. Clint was sitting calmly at the kitchen table, watching the new kid with his sharp eyes. He never said a word, never left the chair, but in the few steps that Steve took to reach the stairs, Clint had gleaned enough information to satisfy himself.

The first bit of info that Clint tucked away was that Steve was very reserved. His walk was determined but careful. His clothes were modest and even bordered on old-fashioned. In fact, a lot about Steve seemed to border on old-fashioned, as if the kid had been forced to live in two different lifetimes: his haircut, his manners, his dialect.

He was also extremely thin; thin enough that food must’ve been poison to him. And in a way, Clint guessed it was. Phil had mentioned something about diabetes and the boy had looked it up at the library at school. His ultimate conclusion was that Steve was a poor sap since he couldn’t have sugar. Clint would die without it. The small lump in Steve’s pants pocket was undoubtedly his inhaler.  

But perhaps the biggest piece of information that Clint gathered was that he’d seen Steve before. Being a kid in the lower grades meant that Clint wouldn’t see Rogers, a kid in the upper grades, at school much if at all. And aside from last week as they’d walked out of Phil’s office, Clint had never interacted with him. But he had…     

“Frisbee.” It was the first thing he said to Steve as the older boy descended the stairs about a half hour later.

Steve looked utterly lost, but that had kind of been Clint’s goal. It gave him the upper hand.

“The red, white, and blue one with the star on it,” Clint clarified.

Steve’s brows knitted together as he studied Clint for a long moment. Then a small grin spread over his face. “It was you. You’re the one that climbed up in the tree to get it.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, you were there with that tall guy. Friend?”

At that Steve’s face blanched and his features went grey and sad. “He was.”

“What happened?” Clint asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Steve frowned and replied tight-lipped, “He moved.”

But Clint wasn’t called Hawkeye for nothing and he could tell that Steve was only telling part of the story. The younger boy was about to push further when Phil came into the kitchen with a pizza box and announced that it was time to eat. Out of habit, Clint got out plates and utensils, making a small show over having to get out one more of each for the newcomer.

They ate in relative silence. Phil would ask a question that Steve would answer but not thoroughly elaborate on. Clint discreetly rolled his eyes at every “yes, sir” and “Mr. Coulson” that came from Steve’s mouth.

When they were about finished, Phil had turned his attention to his son, reminding him about the late counseling session he had tomorrow so Clint would have to come to the office after tutoring with Pepper. While the two were discussing the next day’s plans, Steve had stood up and began collecting plates and silverware.

Clint was in the middle of confirming Phil’s directions when Steve reached for the younger boy’s plate.

It was pure instinct, a drive that had been instilled in him since the first day in the boys’ home. But as Steve gripped onto the plate, Clint slammed his hand down hard right onto the other boy’s wrist, pinning it to the table with enough force to bruise. In automatic response, Steve tried to free himself, but Clint only gripped tighter. Both boys had gone into full survival mode by that instant and Steve reflexively shoved Clint in the shoulder.

The action caught Clint off guard and triggered numerous memories of being pushed around, whether it was by the other residence of the boys’ home or his own father. The animal part currently driving his brain made Clint jerk on Steve’s still captured wrist with a cross between a growl and scream coming from his mouth, and a resounding _pop_ echoed from the bones on the other boy’s body.

Phil had shot up from the table the second Clint had grabbed Steve’s wrist and had now scrambled his way over to the fray. With a firm hand, he gripped down on Clint’s free forearm and placed his other hand on the boy’s opposite shoulder. With careful but considerable pressure he pushed on both, yelling, “That’s enough!”

Clint’s head snapped up to meet Phil’s serious gaze. There was the initial pain in his blue-greys that came with being yelled at, but when Phil failed to immediately follow it up with a fist or a backhand, the kid relaxed a degree. Phil dropped his hands and Clint let go of Steve, keeping his fists balled in case the older boy came in for an attack. Phil grabbed Clint’s cup from the table and all but shoved it into the boy’s hands. “Go cool down. _Now_.” He pointed to the front door and after a brief glare at Steve, Clint complied, taking the glass of water with him, sipping it slowly.

“Did I do something wrong?” Steve asked timidly, wringing his hands in the hem of his shirt as if he was unsure what to do with them.

Phil sighed deeply. “Yes, but it wasn’t your fault.” He put out his hand for Steve’s wrist. The older boy held it out carefully, allowing Phil to look it over. Nothing seemed broken, but it wouldn’t surprise him if the boy had deep bruising for a while.

“Clint spent time in an orphanage after his parents died,” Phil explained as he continued to look over Steve for any more injuries. “The other boys there had a tendency to steel his food, most of the time just grabbing his plate.”

Steve nodded understandingly but then shrugged. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know. But you have to understand; Clint has triggers. I’m not saying his reaction is to be condoned, but just…”

Steve smiled sadly and pulled his wrist away from Phil. “I understand.” He paused a moment before asking, “Any others I should be aware of?”

Honestly Phil was still trying to find an answer to the question. He knew a few, but even after two and half years, daily conversation with Clint could still be a minefield. But there was one that stood out. “Don’t mention his brother.”

“Didn’t know he had one.”

“Yeah, well, it would be better that way; trust me.” Phil sighed again and then quietly asked, “Would you mind just putting the dishes in the sink while I talk to Clint?”

Steve nodded again and set about the task.

Outside on the steps, Clint sat with his knees up to his chest, glass in hand now almost empty. Phil sat down next to him with a long exhale of breath.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” came his quiet voice. It was small and hurt, and it was so tempting to just let the kid off the hook. But this was one of those times that leniency wouldn’t pay off in the long run.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to, Clint.”

The boy’s face soured at that and he took another swig of water. “Only if he apologizes first.”

“Clint,” Phil scolded.

“What? He started it!”

“Clint.”

“He did!”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know any better.” Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly. “Look, I know this is going to be an adjustment. For all of us. But you’re going to have to get along with him. Okay?”

Clint folded his arms across his chest and pouted just a little bit. Phil placed a gentle hand on the kid’s back and rubbed in a few circles, whispering, “I know, bud.”

After a moment Phil left, instructing Clint to finish his water before he came in to insure that the kid had calmed down. And when the front door opened again, Clint entered and begrudgingly gave an “I’m sorry” to Steve. The older boy took what he could get, apologized back, and returned to finishing up his history homework.

Later, as both boys were getting ready for bed, Steve observed that a good portion of everything Clint owned was a variation on the same color: his sheets, his towel, even his toothbrush.

“What’s with all the purple?” he asked, a smile on his face to give it a joking air, something to help soothe over the evening’s event.

But the humor was lost on Clint who saw the question as a personal attack. Instead the boy just rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth, glared at Steve, and then left to curl up in bed.

Once Steve entered and turned off the light, crawling beneath his own sheets, Clint returned the barbed question. “What really happened to your friend from the park.”

There was silence for a long time before Steve answered, “I told you, he moved.”

“Bull.”

Steve rolled his eyes at the voice from the bunk above him. He turned to his side, saying, “Tell me what’s up with you and purple and I’ll tell you what happened to Bucky.”

There was no reply for a while from up top and Steve thought maybe Clint had gone to sleep. Or maybe he was seriously weighing his offer. Instead the only response was a mumbled, “Good night, Steve,” followed by the rustle of blankets and the shifting of the mattress above him as the younger kid leaned over to set his hearing aids in a small case on the small built-in platform on the end of the bed.

Steve stared at the action and tried to come to terms with his first encounter with Clint’s deafness? He’d known, had seen the devices in Clint’s ears, but it hadn’t really hit him until that moment and he suddenly felt a little sad for the younger boy. What was it like, he wondered. It couldn’t have been complete silence; otherwise the hearing aids wouldn’t work. But to be able to tune so much out…

There had been many times in his own life when he’d have given anything to be able to dissolve the moment into silence. Times when he had to stand by and watch his mother cry. Times when he’s witnessed Bucky turning into something… different.

Flipping over to the other side he curled up and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sibling rivalry.   
> And poor Steve tries so hard. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> I'd like to extend a special thank you to those who sent me information/corrections. Again, this second installment is already written, so you may continue to see errors. However, I will try to scout for them as I post. Thanks again! 
> 
> And thanks again to all who read, comment, bookmark, and kudos. You all are the bomb!

Steve had arrived on Wednesday. Thursday held more arguing. Friday was simply ignoring each other. By Saturday they were practically allergic to each other. So on Sunday, Phil was determined to get the two to interact.

He suggested (commanded) that both boys go to the park and toss around a ball or something.

“Seriously? Steve’s arm’ll break if he even holds a ball.”

“Clint.” It was a stern warning and a narrowed brow from Phil.

“Could we do a Frisbee instead? Clint might not be too wrong about the ball,” Steve tried to defuse, hoping the humor would ease the younger boy into agreement.

“Sure. Whatever,” Clint shrugged, irritated.

“Make sure you have your inhaler, Steve,” Phil called as the two of them left for the park down the street.

Fifteen minutes later they were back and in even worse shape than before.

“I didn’t mean it!”

“Shut up, Steve!”

“Hey, whoa,” Phil interjected after the door had slammed and the pair stood facing each other, glares sharper than daggers. “What happened?”

“He hit me in the head!” Clint answered, still keyed up. One glance at the boy’s expression told Coulson that the boy was scared to death.

“It was an accident,” Steve protested. “Not all of us have deadly aim like you, Clint.”

“Yeah, deadly’s the word,” the kid spat in retort.

“Alright, calm down. Both of you.” Phil pinched his brow trying to curtail the headache already forming. “One at a time, what happened?”

“I threw the Frisbee at Clint. It banked too far left and it hit him in the head,” Steve explained.

“Right here, Phil,” Clint interrupted, pointing to his temple. The fear in his eyes increased. “What if it makes me have another seizure?”

So that’s what this was about. It wasn’t so much that Steve had missed and hit Clint; it was where the hit was.

Phil sank to his haunches and carefully framed Clint’s head in his hands, looking over the boy’s temple. There didn’t appear to be any damage but beneath his grip he could feel the boy shaking.

Running a gentle hand through Clint’s hair, Phil concluded, “I don’t see anything, but we’ll keep an eye on it. Okay?” The boy nodded and left for the kitchen.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. “Another trigger?”

Phil frowned. “A hit to the head made him deaf and another one made him have a seizure. He’s sensitive to it.”

Steve hung his head. “I really didn’t mean-”

“I know. And no one’s blaming you, Steve.”

He bit his lip, chewing at it for a moment before asking, “Are there any other triggers I should worry about. I mean, I know not to take his food, not to mention his bother, not to hit him with a Frisbee, and for some reason not to bring up his obsession with purple. Is there anything I _can_ talk to him about?”

Phil gave a half smile. “You’ll have to find that on your own.”

Steve rolled his eyes and Phil thought the gesture looked a little out of place on the kid. “Great.”

Placing a strong hand on Steve’s shoulder, Phil clarified, “He’s not used to this. To having someone want to be his friend.”

“What makes you think I want to be his friend?” But there was so little hostility in it that it didn’t sound fractionally true.

“You wouldn’t be trying so hard if you weren’t.” Phil gave a small sigh. “Look, everyone else in his life so far has hurt him, even betrayed him. You’ll have to be patient with him, Steve. And I know that’s asking a lot and it isn’t fair, but if you want him to trust you it’ll take some time.” He sighed again. “And don’t worry, I’ll talk to him about the same thing.”

Steve nodded but still had a frown on his face. He left in silence to go finish some homework upstairs.

Phil stepped into the kitchen, lips pressed into a hard line. Clint sat at the table, mindlessly running a finger through the condensation that had accumulated on the glass in front of him. His hearing aids were out and on the table next to the glass.

 _They bothering you?_ Phil signed.

Clint shook his head. _No._

 _Then why are they out?_ It wasn’t a reprimand, just a question. Clint shrugged and went back to playing with the moisture on the glass.

Phil tapped the kid’s wrist to get his attention. It took a bit, but Clint’s blue-grey gaze eventually met Phil’s.

_Clint._

_You’re mad at me, aren’t you,_ the boy interrupted. 

Phil shook his head vehemently. _No, bud._ They were silent until Phil let out a breath and stared the boy straight on. _I’m not mad. Your reaction could have been better, but I understand that you were scared._

Clint nodded and went back to drawing shapes in the dew on the glass. He still didn’t like when people pointed out his weaknesses. With Phil it was okay, but it didn’t settle as well in his gut as it would a normal person. Fear was weakness and weakness was not tolerated. Not by his father, not by Jackson, not by Barney.

Phil tapped the boy’s wrist again. _You’re going to have to get along with Steve._

_Can’t I just put up with him?_

_It’d be easier on me if you got along._

Clint frowned, shoulders sagging. He really didn’t want to disappoint Phil nor make what the man had done from the kindness of his heart into more of a chore.

_Just promise you’ll try. And I mean really try, Clint. Don’t give up on this. Okay?_

Clint was quiet a long time but eventually nodded. _I promise to try._

And for Phil, that was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

The two weeks since the Frisbee fiasco saw little progress. Although the two mostly went back to ignoring each other, a tutoring session with Pepper had them clashing once again. Steve normally came along and sat in the back corner doing his own homework. But when Steve heard the younger boy swear loudly, he had to step in.

“Hey, watch your language. Especially in front of a lady.”

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. “Well excuse me, boy scout. You try and read something with the letters all swimming around and see how calm you stay.”  

“Frustration is no reason to curse.”

“It’s every reason to curse,” Clint laughed humorlessly.

“Boys,” Pepper tried to interject but was mowed over as Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t even know those words yet; you’re only ten.”

“Yeah, well, some of us heard those words every day. Were called those words every day. Not all of us got to grow up in some perfect household like you, Steve.”

“You think it was perfect? My dad died and I was left to take care of my sick mom. I was in charge of the household, of our survival!”

“Don’t talk to me about survival!”

“Boys!” This time they both looked at her. “Thank you,” Pepper continued with a sigh. “Look, you both had it rough. But you should use your experiences to help each other, not to compete. Clint, you know what it’s like to have food taken away and Steve, you know what it’s like to have to ration it out for the rest of the week. See? You both went hungry, just in different ways. So get it through your thick skulls that you’re more alike than different and deal with it.” She slammed her book shut. “We’re done for today, Clint. You can spend the rest of the time talking to Steve about things you two have in common.” She packed up her bag and left.

Both boys watched her go. Pepper made a beeline to Phil’s office to let him know what had happened. She normally wasn’t one to tattle, but she was getting sick and tired of the boys butting heads and then avoiding each other like the plague. And after a conversation with Coulson, she found that she wasn’t the only one.

Pepper’s observation on the subject sealed an idea that Phil had been nursing for awhile and with a sigh, he decided to go for it.

He found the boys still in the empty classroom, on opposite sides, facing away from each other. One look at the situation had him inferring that after Pepper had left, Steve probably suggested they try and do as she said but Clint refused. Confirmation came in the form of his hearing aids out on the desk. Phil rolled his eyes and collected the two boys.

The trip home was completely silent.

An hour later, Coulson had the pair seated at the table, a sheet of paper in front of each of them and three coins beside it. In the middle of the table was an empty Tupperware bowl.

“It has come to my attention that you two seem to be having trouble finding not only common, but civil ground,” Phil began, leaning on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, addressing both boys with a stern look. “So we’re going to try to fix that.” He pointed to the table’s set up. “The paper in front of you is so you can write down questions and answers.”

Clint opened his mouth but Phil put up a hand.

“No, spelling doesn’t count, just so long as you can read it. Now, each of you will take a turn asking the other a question. The person answering _must_ answer the question. However, you’ll notice there are three pennies beside your piece of paper. These are your passes. Each of you can pass on three questions and if you choose to do so, you put a penny in the bowl. Once you’re out of pennies, you’re out of passes, so use them wisely.

“The goal is to find _something_ you have in common. I don’t care if it’s a movie, flavor of pie, or how you tie your shoes. But you will not leave this table until you’ve found that thing in common. Got it?”

Clint nodded while Steve replied, “Yes, Mr. Coulson,” causing the other boy to roll his eyes.

“Okay. Have at it.” And then Phil left the room.

Steve turned his gaze to Clint who was already bouncing his coins off the table and into the bowl where he’d collect them and then repeat the action. The older boy cleared his throat.

“I guess I’ll go first.”

Clint shrugged in response.

“What’s your favorite book?”

“Robin Hood,” the younger boy answered not breaking stride bouncing his pennies.

Steve wrote the question and answer down neatly on his paper and then looked up expectantly at Clint who continued to ignore him. “You know,” Steve started, “you won’t be able to keep track of your passes if you keep fishing them out of the bowl like that.”

Clint glared. “I can count to three, Steve.”

He watched the boy bounce his penny in at a seemingly impossible angle and made a note to ask about that. When Clint still hadn’t returned an inquiry, Steve cleared his throat again. “It’s your turn.”  

With more exaggeration than necessary, Clint heaved a sigh and asked, “Why do you still call Phil ‘Mr. Coulson’?”

“He’s an elder; you treat them with respect.”

“Who says?”

“That’s what I was taught. Didn’t your mom or dad ever-”

But Clint’s expression silenced him. Steve frowned deeply, made another note on his paper, and then asked his next question. “Last movie you saw in theaters?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“It’s not your turn to ask a question.”

“Well you didn’t answer mine.”

They stared each other down for a moment before Clint seceded. “Barn, Trick, and I snuck into one once, but the sound from the speakers bounced around, and with my hearing aids, I couldn’t really tell what was being said. So I haven’t gone to one since.”

There was a lot of key information in that and Steve noted as much as he could: Who’re Trick and Barn? He doesn’t like movies in the theater. Could he read lips then? Can he now? How long ago was this?

“What’s with the Uncle Sam poster by your bed?” Clint asked, taking his turn and bouncing another penny into the bowl.

“My dad was in the army. I’ve always wanted to join but I don’t qualify because of my asthma and diabetes, and overall lack of health.”

Clint stopped playing with the coins long enough to stare at Steve, his head cocked to the side and his eyes searching. It was the first time Steve had been pinned by the Hawk’s gaze. He’d heard Coulson call Clint “Hawkeye” on occasion and now he knew why. Or at least, maybe perhaps where it came from. The intensity of Clint’s blue-greys was unmistakable, and Steve felt like the younger boy was looking into his soul. But then Clint blinked, shrugged a shoulder, and went back to tossing pennies.

Still a little unnerved at what had just happened, Steve sat and watched the coin bounce once in front of the bowl and then skim the rim in a spiral until it landed in the center.

“Shouldn’t you be writing the questions down?”

Clint scoffed. “I’ll remember them.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah. As long as I got a shot to go with them. Each question gets one and if I ever do that shot again, I’ll remember the question.”

Steve bobbed his head and added to his paper: kinetic learner. “Okay,” he started, considering if it was all right to ask what he’d wanted to know since the first night he’d stayed here. “What’s up with almost everything you own being purple?”

Clint frowned and shot another penny into the bowl. But this time he made no effort to retrieve it.

“Seriously! You’re going to waste a pass on telling why purple’s your favorite color?”

“Fine!” Clint shrieked back, fishing the coin from the bowl. “Purple’s safe.” He took a breath as Steve narrowed his brows in confusion. The younger boy collapsed his head onto his arms crossed on the table. Mumbling, he explained, “When Dad hit me hard enough to damage my hearing, I was in the hospital for a while. They had me in the stupid kid’s wing or something like that because everything was colorful and had, like forest animals and crap. The room I was in was purple. And I was there for a while but I don’t remember much, just that as long as the walls were purple I knew I was safe, that Dad couldn’t hurt me. There. You happy?”

Steve gave a simple nod, silently digesting what he’d been told. Purple was safe. It really couldn’t be summed up better. But it was why it was “safe” that got to Steve. He couldn’t even imagine what it must’ve been like to have the past Clint did. He’d had it rough, really rough, but Clint had been through a hell with more fire. Where he’d been afraid, Clint had been terrified. And to suffer it all in a silence that was created by a man that was supposed to protect him…

“Guess that means I can ask about Bucky?” Clint inquired, lifting his head.

Steve dropped his gaze but answered anyway, seeing it as only fair. “Bucky and I were best friends. We’d grown up together; he was there for me when my dad died. But then he went away one summer, some kind of camp or something, and when he came back, he didn’t want to hang out with me anymore.

“He got into some trouble, made some bad decisions. He started hanging out with the wrong crowd. You know?” It wasn’t really a question but Steve looked up at Clint just to check. The younger boy didn’t answer so Steve powered on, “Anyway, we just grew apart and then he moved. I haven’t seen him in a few years.”

When Steve looked up again he saw Clint in the same position he’d been in earlier, with his head tilted and his eyes intense. But this time a frown budded on his face followed by a very mumbled, “Sorry,” that Steve would have missed if he hadn’t been watching the kid so closely.

They were quiet a moment, almost out of reverence for each other’s losses. But Clint broke it with an easy question to get them back on track. “When’s your birthday.”

“July fourth,” he responded with a grin.

“Really? An Uncle Sam poster and you were born on Fourth of July. It’s like you’re the mascot for the country.”

Steve smiled and gave a small laugh at that. He made a note about Clint’s use of sarcasm and then went for his next question. “Earlier you mentioned Barn and Trick. Who are they?”

Clint sat very still and rolled a coin between his fingers, debating whether or not to use it. With a frown and tight lips, he replied, “Trick was my friend at the boy’s home. Barn was my brother.”    

And Steve knew better than to press any further. Clint went back to bouncing coins. “What do you do when you’re not saluting the flag?”

“I like to draw.”

And so they went. Back and forth, finding out nuances and trivia about each other. But as Steve went over the list on his paper, and Clint reviewed it in his head, neither could come up with common ground.

“How’s it going?” Phil asked, coming into the kitchen about an hour after he’d left them to it.

Clint flung his head down on the table, rolling his forehead on his folded arms. “Uhg, we’ve got nothing. And we’ve been at this for hours.”

“It’s been fifty-three minutes.”

Phil looked over to Steve for any form of confirmation. The older boy just shrugged and gave a half smile as if in apology. So Coulson shook his head and changed gears, switching to plan B. “Okay, then. New tactic. Each of you pick something from your list,” he glanced down at Clint’s blank paper and the kid responded by dramatically pointing to his temple, “and take an interest in it.”

“So, like, read Robin Hood?” Steve inferred.

“Yeah.”

“What do I gotta do?” Clint whined. Phil could tell he was getting tired of this, but if it was the only way to get them to see eye to eye, then so be it. 

“You pick something,” Phil reiterated, crossing his arms over his chest.

Clint fiddled with the penny in his hand and then tossed it towards the bowl. It bounced on the backside of it before reversing its spin and landing in the container. The boy frowned and then murmured, “Art it is.”

“Good. You two have all weekend to work something out.”

 

But the weekend could only do so much.

Because the teachers had decided to load on the homework, Steve only had time to read about half of Clint’s copy of Robin Hood and when the two talked about it, in his excitement, Clint accidently gave away a major spoiler. He apologized, but both knew reading the rest wouldn’t be the same.

Steve tried to get Clint to settle down enough to do some art together, but the younger boy insisted they go outside and then sketched some random shapes for about ten minutes before climbing the tree and nesting up there for a few hours. Steve made the best of it by sketching what he could see of the younger boy’s form through the dense summer leaves.

When Monday morning came, the two weren’t much closer, but at least they were no longer jumping at each other’s throats.

And Phil had always been grateful for small favors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our poor boys! Will they ever get along?


	7. Chapter 7

Trick Shot had called it a sixth sense. Barn had called it creepy. Either way, ever since he could remember, Clint had been able to tell when the air was off. When something was wrong, out of place. It wasn’t as obvious as the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, nor as cosmic as seeing visions of prophetic dreams. It was instead, just a strange feeling in his gut, a restlessness in his heart. So when he woke up in the middle of the night, eyes still blurry and sticky with sleep, he knew immediately that something was wrong.

The strange instinct told him to look into the bunk below him and check up on his roommate. Sure enough, Steve was there, fist to his mouth, eyes screwed shut with effort. His eyes opened for a split second, but it was more than enough to covey his overwhelming fear.

Clint couldn’t hear the rough hacks the other boy was making, but from that super quick glance, the younger boy knew Steve was terrified.

He leapt down from his bunk and gently gripped Steve’s upper arms in his hands. His eyes were pure question, while the older boy’s were fear. Steve said something; Clint could feel the change in vibration from the apparent coughing and wheezing. But having not put his aids in, the kid had no idea what was strangled out of Steve’s swollen throat.

With what little remained of his strength, the older boy shook off one of Clint’s hand and made a motion with his fingers, squeezing one down while the other’s appeared to be gripping something.

 _Inhaler_.

Clint nodded and began searching the nightstand for Steve’s canister, almost knocking over a bottle of insulin during the process. He couldn’t find the thing though and shot back around to face Steve.

Clint raised a single finger, wagged it side to side, and narrowed his brows. But Steve didn’t know the sign for _where_ and could only cough more, his airways constricting further.

Clint tried again, this time awkwardly bringing the word out vocally. He knew the sound was probably closer to a croak since he couldn’t hear it, but it would have to be enough. Steve understood and pointed to the nightstand. Clint shook his head, but Steve pointed adamantly; his eyes closed again as choked coughs continued to escape this throat.

Clint turned back to the nightstand and looked it over again, still not seeing the inhaler. But then it occurred to him that Steve wasn’t pointing at the nightstand, he was pointing at the drawer.

It was a small drawer, big enough to hold a thin glasses case or small flashlight. It was located on the underside of the nightstand, hidden unless an individual knew to look for it. Clint pulled the drawer open and sure enough, the canister was there.

He rushed it over to the wheezing boy and helped guide it in his hands, pushing the canister down as Steve inhaled a long drag. A few moments later, the older boy closed his eyes and sat back on the bed, exhausted. Clint took the moment to reach up and grab his hearing aids, shoving them in his ears before he collapsed on the bed next to Steve, his own heart pounding.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment.

Steve nodded in reply. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

They went quiet again until Steve asked, “How did you know? I mean, you couldn’t hear me so…”

“I felt it,” Clint answered, playing with the dangling edge of his bed sheets up top.

“Like the vibration?”

And maybe that had been it. Maybe that had been what had triggered him to wake up; that had been what was wrong in the air. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d proven to be sensitive to vibrations since it went along with being deaf. But Clint couldn’t answer for sure, so he shrugged and murmured, “Just knew.”

Steve frowned at that but instead of prying further just went back to taking deep, steady breaths, hacking out coughing remains.

“So what was that?” Clint inquired in a voice only a little above a whisper.

“Asthma attack. I don’t get them very often, but when I do, they’re, well, terrifying. I can’t breathe. My throat swells up. And then there’s the mucus. _Ugck._ ”

Clint kind of laughed at the sound and Steve smiled lightly.

“They don’t normally happen at night,” he continued explaining. “Normally I get them when I’ve been running around too much or if I’ve spent time outside in like pollen or something.” He sighed. “I guess this one might have been dust; Mr. Coulson and I cleaned out that corner of the garage so I could put my bike there. Could have kicked up some dust and stuff.”

Clint frowned. The bike being put in the garage seemed to him to be such a permanent action. Phil had told him repeatedly that Steve was temporary. But as the weeks dragged on, Steve became more and more of a constant. Now Clint wasn’t sure if things were ever going to go back to how they were.

“Well, if you’re okay now,” the younger boy started, getting up from the bed, “I’m gonna hit it.” He got one foot on the ladder before Steve called out.

“Clint.”

He turned to face him.

“Can you- do you mind if-“ But Steve dropped his gaze to his hands in his lap. “Just… I can’t close my eyes. Not yet.”

And that hit Clint hard.

Because he knew what that was like. To not be able to go back to sleep after a nightmare. And not being able to breathe, that was worst than a nightmare. It was real. And terrifying.

So he clambered back into the spot he’d been previously and stared straight ahead. Steve continued to monitor his breathing, his throat opening as the medicine worked its magic.

“For me it’s closed spaces,” Clint said after a moment.

“What?”

“Most of my nightmares. The ones that wake me up.” He looked over at Steve, locking him in his gaze. “The ones where I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

Steve nodded slightly although his eyes remained curious.

Clint continued. “My dad would get drunk and beat on me and my brother, so I learned to hide when he got in a mood. One time I hid in the cabinet under the sink. But he found me. And instead of hitting me, he yelled that since I liked hiding there so much, he’d keep me down there.” A pause as the boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He locked the cabinet with something wrapped tight around the handles. I couldn’t open it. And it was so dark. Blacker than anything I’ve ever come across. And cramped.

“I was down there for hours. Mom only found me ‘cause I was crying. She opened the door and I had to immediately close my eyes because the light was too much.”

“How old were you?”

“Four, I think. Maybe younger; I still had my hearing.”

They went silent again for a spell.

Steve broke it with, “I would have nightmares about my dad dying over there in the Sand. They were usually pretty nondescript. But that didn’t mean they weren’t awful. And then we got the call that it’d actually happened and I couldn’t sleep for days. I thought…” he leaned his head back and sighed, “I thought I’d killed him. That somehow my dreaming of his death is why he died. But then Mom got sick and I never once dreamed of her dying. I never dreamed of her at all. In fact, I don’t remember any of my dreams after Dad passed. It’s like once he died, all of them stopped, the good and the bad.”

“Instead they were brought to life, right?” Clint inferred. “You lived what you were afraid of at night.”

There was no response for a long time until finally Steve whispered, “Yeah.”  

They sat there, each reflecting in what the other had said. After awhile Clint held up a single finger and then scrambled up to his bunk before shuffling back down, his target object in his hand.

“This is Hawkeye,” the younger boy explained, handing the stuffed bird off to Steve. “I got him after I’d had my first seizure.”

Steve held the plush bird in his hands, examining the soft fabric and big golden eyes.

“I know it sounds stupid, but… well, he keeps an eye out for me. Makes sure I can go to sleep without being afraid that I’ll have another seizure. And even if I do, Phil makes sure he’s there when I wake up so I know it’s okay.”

Steve kept his eyes on the stuffed animal, gently maneuvering it in his hands. With a pale smile, he suddenly clutched the bird to his chest and lowered his face so that it was buried in the fake down. Clint didn’t say anything as a tear rolled down Steve’s cheek and the older boy wiped it away.

The action was desperate and childish. But it had been so long since he’d gotten to be a kid that Steve couldn’t care less.

He stayed with is face hidden and the bird clasped to his chest for several minutes before he sniffed and then handed Hawkeye back to his original owner. But Clint pushed him back.

“He can stay with you for tonight.”

With a tired smile Steve took the stuffed bird back, curling him into the crook of his arm. Clint started climbing the ladder again but added, “And, Steve, if you’re not ready to go back to sleep yet,” he looked down and smiled slightly, “Hawkeye likes Robin Hood.”

Steve laughed at that and the sound seemed to resonate in the quiet room. “Thanks, Clint.”

The younger boy just gave a nod and then climbed into bed, curling up under the covers. He took out his hearing aids and set them on the shelf, registering that the last sound he heard was Phil’s distant snoring.    


	8. Chapter 8

Phil was lost. He’d gotten up that morning and had made breakfast for him and the boys, showered, dressed, and had then come downstairs to the surprise of his life. He pinched himself just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t.

Clint and Steve were sitting next to each other at the table. They were passing each other the butter and syrup without having to practically beg it of the other one or being badgered to say “please.” They were even laughing at something. They were… getting along.

Phil tousled Clint’s hair a little on his way to his seat, making fun of his bed head in order to keep the weirdness of this new development at bay by something extremely normal. Clint shook his head to get the hair to fall back into place saying, “Yeah, well, I can’t help that I’m not like Steve and comb it in my sleep.”

The older boy smiled. “It’s true. I’ve been known to try exotic hairstyles while I slumber. Even something so bold as 1970s’ Elvis.” They both laughed and Phil just stared in bewilderment.

Steve had gracefully taken Clint’s tease and then shot back a sarcastic, creative retort that Clint had found funny and not annoying. What was going on? It was like an episode of _The Twilight Zone._    

“Jam, please,” Steve asked Clint, who passed it to him immediately and without a single accusation of him being the only person to not eat pancakes with syrup like a normal person.

“Okay. Stop,” Phil interjected, putting down his fork and raising a hand so that his palm was facing outwards. “Who are you two and what have you done with Steve and Clint?”

The boys shared a look before busting out laughing. It took awhile to die down but when it did, Steve clarified, “We found our common ground.”

“And?”

“Nightmares,” Clint filled in.

 _Okay_ , thought Phil. But he put his hands up in a surrender gesture and then tucked into his breakfast. As long as he no longer had to worry about cleaning up blood out of the carpet, he was fine with it.

 

Audrey had adored April. She’d commented once that April was one of the few months that could go through all the seasons by the time it was over. There could be snow the first week, crisp weather the next, pollen floating in the air by the third, and green leaves appearing on the trees by the end.

She liked rain and would often sit on the couch and face the window, watching the drops slide down the pane and cling to the flowers and trees beyond. She loved the smell of it, the taste of it on her tongue. She would often try to compose a piece or simple melody while it rained outside.

The spring after the accident, Phil had barely gotten through April. If it hadn’t been for Principal Fury and Maria Hill strenuously coaching him through it, he wasn’t sure if he’d been able to survive. The year after that, the paperwork had gone through, and Clint had been officially adopted. The despondency of the previous year compared to that one had been a stark contrast and he was overjoyed to experience it.

April’s undertone of shade and sadness made its colors that much brighter. And Phil found himself looking out the window in his office more than he probably should have.

His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He was deep enough in them, though, that it took him a moment to register that it was his cell and not office phone that was sounding off.

“Hello?” he answered, realizing too late that he’d forgotten to check the caller ID.

“Phil?” the voice on the other line asked.

Coulson’s world spun a little as recognition of the voice’s owner budded forth in his mind. “Cora.” And then as he recovered, “Hi, how are you?” 

“I’m good, Phil. You?”

“Busy,” he answered with a smile.

Cora laughed a little over the phone and Coulson couldn’t help notice the sound wasn’t as bright as it had been when he’d first met her. “Oh, Phil, I’m glad I got a hold of you. Did you get my box?”

“Yeah. Sorry I never called. Things have been kind of hectic around here.”   

“I bet. April always was a busy month for you, what with seniors on college visits and everything with graduation, not to mention any social cases you might have. Got a lot of those this year?”

“A few. Mostly Maria at the west side office takes care of them, but I’ve got some to deal with.” He glanced over at the picture on his desk of his late wife and son and to the one next to it of Clint hanging upside down from the monkey bars on the playground at the park. The photo always made him smile and he added almost absently, “Plus two of my own.”

“Two cases?” Cora asked confused. Her change in tone brought him back fully to the conversation.

“Um, yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I’ve got two living with me.”

“I didn’t know you were taking in foster kids?” she commented, a note of something in her voice that Phil couldn’t quite identify.

“Well only one’s a foster case. The other is – well, I, I adopted him.” It felt like a confession. Like he was spilling out a sin. Cora Nathan had been a doting grandmother for seven years. Telling her that he’d adopted a child so soon after Jude’s death felt like betrayal. He didn’t want that. Clint was his son; he wasn’t a replacement. He just hoped that she’d see it that way.

There was silence on the other line and Phil’s stomach started to twist. Then she took in a breath and said, “Oh?”

Phil’s heart sped up as he desperately tried to read into that answer. He didn’t get much time, though because Cora continued on, a smile in her voice.

“Tell me about them, Phil.”    

All the air left his lungs in relief.

“Well, Steve – he’s the foster case – he’s thirteen, recently orphaned. He loves art and history and has the best manners I’ve ever come across.”

Cora laughed a little.

“And then there’s Clint. He’s… independent. Sharp as a tack, highly observant, and isn’t a fan of rules. He’s fantastic at math and science; what little they’ve done with geometry, he’s aced.”

“And how old is he?”

“Ten.”

“Ten and thirteen. Do they get along?”

Phil shook his head and scoffed gently. “It took them awhile, but they eventually came around.” They shared a brief laugh and then Phil asked, “What about you and Dan?”

“Oh, we’re getting along alright. Dan’s retired now so we’ve gotten one of those RV-camper things. Been doing a lot of traveling. We’re taking a trip out East to see Peter, He and his wife just had twin girls.”

Coulson could hear the excitement in her voice edged just barely by engrained sadness. Audrey may have been the last one of her siblings to be married, but she’d been the first to have kids. Something told Phil that these new girls might be the only grandchildren for the Nathan family.

“Well tell him I say congratulations.”

“I will,” Cora responded gladly.

“When do you leave?”

“In about six weeks. We’ll actually be going right past you.”

And then an idea hit. He wasn’t sure if it was crazy or just his big heart talking, but Phil offered, “You know, if you want to stop in, maybe spend the night, you’re more than welcome to. You could meet the boys.”

“Oh, Phil, we’d love to.” And it was the happiest he’d heard her since before the accident. “I’ll talk to Dan to get some of the details ironed out, and then call you to let you know when we’ll be out your way.”

“Great. I look forward to it.”

“Me too, Phil.” She paused. “We really do miss you.”

Phil didn’t know how to respond. After the accident he’d always just assumed that he no longer belonged to the Nathan family; his only connections to them were gone, buried under six feet of dirt and even more sorrow. But it seemed that, perhaps, that connection wasn’t severed, just a little frayed.

“See you soon,” he told her.

“Take care, Phil.”

“You too.”

And the phone call was over.

Phil leaned back in his chair and stared out the window once again. It was raining, small little drops chasing after each other on the pane. Once more his mind circled back to Audrey. And it stayed there until well after the rain shower had ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we got a little bit more of Phil's family. 
> 
> I hope everyone had happy holidays. It's strange to think the next time I post won't be until next year (insert lame joke wink here). 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Trigger warning for bullying

Clint rounded the corner, searching for Steve at his locker. He found him standing there, talking to some girl. But what caught his eye was that Steve’s hands were subtly rubbing at the side of his pants, that the boy’s cheeks were pinker than roses, and he kept almost…giggling, but, you know, nervously. Part of Clint wanted to stay behind and watch the show, but the other part knew he had to get to tutoring with Pepper and didn’t want to be late. He and Steve had walked there together every day since Steve’s asthma attack, and today wasn’t going to break the streak if he could help it.

“Steve?” Clint questioned from behind.

Steve snapped around to face Clint looking like he’d just been caught cheating on a math test.

“Clint. Um, hi. I was just…, um, I guess…”

The girl tucked a strand of brunette hair behind her ear and pulled her book bag further onto her shoulders. “It’s okay, Steve. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Uh, sure. Sure thing, Peggy. See you tomorrow.”

But she was already around the corner. Steve glared at the younger boy who pulled a face of pure innocence and confusion.

“What?”

Steve let out a noise of irritation. “You couldn’t have shown up five minutes later?”

“We’re already running late, Steve. And Pepper doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“So? You could’ve gone on without me.”

Clint looked hurt at that and Steve instantly regretted it.

“Sorry. It’s just… Peggy was asking about some homework and then we got talking about, well, just things, and, uhg.”

Clint’s brows narrowed. “It’s just a girl, Steve.”

Steve shook his head. “No she’s-” but he stopped short and instead finished with, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

They started towards the classroom that Pepper was in, side-by-side, chatting about the day like normal. About halfway there, Steve stopped a moment and pulled something out of his backpack. “Here,” he said handing it to Clint. “I made this in art today.”

It was a simple ballpoint pen drawing on a scrap sheet of construction paper but to Clint it was priceless.

Steve had started drawing them after the night of his asthma attack and it had evolved into a non-sequential series. The first one had been a sketch of Hawkeye, larger than life, standing guard over a set of bunk beds. The speech bubble simply read: Caw. Caw. Steve had given the bird a pair of purple-lensed sunglasses and a rather serious looking expression.

From there it had evolved into a story about Hawkeye being a spy, keeping watch over the country, protecting it with his bow and arrow (like Robin Hood, had been the justification). His partner, Captain Flagg, showed up sometimes too, sporting a rather versatile Frisbee.

Today’s comic showed Hawkeye and Flagg staked out in a tree, planning a strategic attack on an enemy hot dog stand. The enemy – the same one in all of the comics – was a nondescript foe that only identified itself by its skull and crossed spears (like a pirate flag, but cooler, had been the defense there.) The speech bubbles had Flagg saying they’d go on three, and Hawkeye faking disbelief saying, “You can count that high,” and following it with a sly grin. Hawkeye’s lines tended to be drawn directly from Clint’s mouth, and the younger boy couldn’t have been more overjoyed at that fact. As far was he was concerned, he _was_ Hawkeye, a spy and secret agent saving the world. Although, most often they just saved President Coulson from the nondescript foe.

When they got to the classroom they were surprised to find it dark and empty. A note was taped to the door from Pepper.

_Family engagement came up. Had to go, Sorry. :(_

The frowny face made it so Pepper that Clint had to smirk at it.

“Great. I could’ve talked to Peggy longer,” Steve grumbled.

Clint turned to face him, artificial shock thick in his tone. “Steve, are you – are you complaining? Are you telling me that Mr. Perfectly Happy 24/7 is complaining? Boy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on this girl.”

The older boy just reddened in the face and avoided eye contact.

“Knew it,” was the smug response.

“What happened to her being ‘just a girl’?”

Clint shrugged. “I’m older now.” Although it was more of a case realizing he now had ammo against Steve in the manner of thorough, good-natured teasing. He went on collecting, “Any specific reason you like _her?”_

“She’s-” but he’d never get to finish.

It was the sound of a crash, but one that Steve knew very well. Having been on the end of that particular crash before, he took off running to see who was getting their ass kicked at the hands of bullies rough enough to slam a person into the lockers. Clint followed closely behind, acutely aware of Steve’s sudden panic.

The scene was obvious. Three bulky seventh (maybe eighth) graders stood watching as their fourth friend and apparent leader, kept his hand splayed over the face of their victim, who was currently smashed into the lockers, hands groping at the metal to try and gain any form of leverage.

“Hey, leave him alone!” Steve commanded as he came onto the scene. He was standing tall – only putting him at roughly five feet – and had a fierceness in his eyes that demanded respect. But bullies tended to not be in business of giving respect and therefore Steve’s presence brought little more attention than a snicker.

“Oh yeah,” the leader sneered.

“Yeah,” Steve echoed, clenching his fists. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

Clint pulled sharply on Steve’s shirtsleeve, bringing the older boy down to his level. “Or, you know, a quarter of it,” he whispered harshly. He stared at Steve, confusion in his gaze. “What are you doing?”

“Sticking up for the little guy.” Steve’s smile was too confident and that was Clint’s only clue to knowing how forced it was.

The leader’s attention had been pulled away from his original victim by that point, and as he took in the newcomers, he cocked a snide little grin.

“Well if it isn’t Coulson’s strays,” he baited. “What’s the matter? Lose your way to the pound?”

It gained a chorus of laughter from the accompanying gang. Some even high-fived.

“Why don’t you run along now, little puppies, before your owner forgets to feed you.”

Steve could practically feel the anger and hatred boiling inside of Clint. Once glance showed him that the boy was practically a stone’s throw away from losing it. Leave it to the residential bullies to activate one of his strongest triggers. Steve just prayed they didn’t somehow bring up his brother.   

“What’re you saying?” Clint challenged, his hands morphing into fists Steve knew would be used in an instant if these guys pushed any further. Suddenly he wasn’t feeling too assertive in his plan of rescuing the unfortunate victim still under the leader’s hand.    

“I’m saying,” the leader scoffed, finally removing his paw from the poor guy’s face, “that if you don’t hurry on home, you might just go hungry tonight. Or, better yet, Coulson’ll find a new puppy to replace ya. That’s what he did with his son, isn’t it? Just popped you in his place ‘cause he was lonely.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed, and his teeth ground. Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, but it was bucked off with severe fury.

The leader grinned. “Nothin’ but a new puppy.” He glanced at Steve then back to Clint. “Guess you weren’t enough, though, huh?”

And Clint lost it. Steve couldn’t have stopped him if he tried. The boy was pure wrath and rage bound together in red-hot resentment. These boys had unleashed a monster, hit the sensitive triggers in Clint’s mine-field emotions. And now he was coming at them, fists ready, battle cry loosed from this throat.

The leader didn’t know what hit him; one instant he’s all controlled dominance, and the next he’s flat on his back with Clint whaling on him. The rest of the gang stood transfixed by the mad flurry of fists that was this boy. Steve rushed in to pull the original victim out of the fray before returning for Clint. But he was too late. The leader had finally come to terms with the change in events and with a solid hit, landed a fist right to Clint’s eye. The hit landed hard on the boy, knocking him off balance enough for the leader to take over. He shoved Clint, this time bodily moving the boy off of him and into the lockers, hitting the side of Clint’s head with a metallic rattle.

The leader stood up and reached down to lift Clint up by his shirt.

“Not so tough now, huh?”

But through the swollen skin of his forming black eye, Clint just glared, the rage still having not left his gaze. He spit on the older boy and that earned him a rough shove back into the lockers.

But Steve was there now, and he put himself between the leader and his foster brother.

“That’s enough!” he yelled. The leader just smirked and pulled back for a punch to Steve, but in that moment, reinforcements arrive.

Fury. The man could change the atmosphere of an entire room just by stepping into it. His presence was unmistakable, undeniable. His shadow crossed over the leader and Steve and both boys froze.

“I’m afraid Mr. Rogers is right.” Fury lowered himself to be eye-level with the leader. “That _is_ enough.” He righted himself and then glared pointedly at everyone present. “All of you, office. Now.”

And it was not a suggestion.

But as all the boys gathered into the office, the group noticed that it was lacking one particular key member.

The original victim was missing.                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nervous Steve around Peggy and Steve doodling up comics are two of my favorite things. 
> 
> And who is that mysterious victim? (Sadly that won't be answered this week, but soon; I promise.) 
> 
> Now, let's go watch justice be served at the hand of FURY!


	10. Chapter 10

They were chewed out thoroughly. Harped to about the rise of delinquency and its connections to lives of crime. Steve had long ago bowed his head in shame but still kept his eyes raised enough to appear as motionless and accepting as a soldier being grilled by a drill sergeant. The leader, with his bloody nose and fat lip looked scared to death, as did the rest of his crew. And Clint, now coming off his adrenaline rush, slumped in the corner and looked marginally bored.

When Fury was through he had the boys wait outside and brought them in one by one to hear their side of the story. The seventh graders conveniently left out the account of the original victim, but both Steve and Clint started with that. Fury decided to give it merit, seeing as the latter two had never been to his office before. A quick scan of the security tapes confirmed the story. But nevertheless, Clint had initiated round two of the fight.

The seventh graders were given two weeks detention. Clint, three days. Steve volunteered to serve it with him and Fury couldn’t really tell him no. But that was the easy part. The hard portion was going to be explaining to Phil why his boys were in the office in the first place.

They were told to wait in the car while Fury gave Phil the account of what happened and the aftermath of the incident. Phil’s head hung in embarrassment and frustration. He told the principal that he’d handle the boys when they got home.

“What they said to him, Phil,” Fury started as the other man began to walk away. “I know they were triggers. But he’s going to have to learn to deal with it.”

Phil wanted to protest, say it wasn’t that easy. But he knew that would get him nowhere, so he answered, “I know. But it’ll take time.”

The principal nodded, turning to go back inside his office. Phil gripped his keys tightly and made his way for the car. No one uttered a sound on the trip home. And as soon as they were in the driveway, Phil killed the engine but kept the doors locked for a moment. “I want to talk to both of you. Separately. Steve, you’re first. Inside. Now. Clint, wait on the steps.”

The boys didn’t even pretend to protest.  

 

 “What were you thinking, Steve?” Phil demanded from his place of sitting on the edge of the coffee table. The older boy didn’t move an inch on the couch except to shrug.

“I don’t like bullies. And I’ve had my fair share of them to know that.” His blue eyes stayed staring straight at Phil. The ever-unmoving soldier.

“So you dove head first into a fight to stop them?” Coulson inquired.

“They were hurting someone. I _had_ to stop them.” He paused, a slight challenge making its way into his gaze as if to beg the question _would you not have done the same._

Phil sighed. “Right sentiment, wrong tactic. Look, I appreciate you standing up to them, Steve. But next time go get help.”

The boy nodded.

“And another thing,” Coulson began. “I don’t care if it’s only temporary, Clint’s your foster brother. And it’s your duty to protect him. Understand?”

His eyes took on pure sincerity. “Yes, sir.” And he meant that. Because Bucky had been his older brother, had looked out for him. And Steve was determined to do better than his once best friend.

“Good. Go on upstairs. Dinner will be ready in about thirty, so take your insulin.”

The older boy did as he was told while Phil went and retrieved Clint from off the front steps. Once in the living room, Phil took his seat again on the coffee table and put Clint where Steve had been previously. It was slight but unmistakable how the kid was scrunched up, shoulders hunched, head down, as if anticipating a fist, a backhand, or a belt. The boy was in trouble, and where he’d come from, that meant painful punishment. But the fact that he didn’t flinch when Phil leaned forward, told the man that there was still far more trust between them versus the fear of his old man or Carter at the boys’ home.

“Clint.”

The kid didn’t match Phil’s gaze as he mumbled, “You’re mad.”

Phil slowly shook his head. “No. But I’m extremely disappointed in you.”

The pain that filled Clint’s eyes as he looked up was leagues beyond watching the kid fold in on himself out of habit. It would have been easier to have just been angry at the kid. But that wasn’t what this was about. 

“I’m not disappointed at the fight; what they said to you… damn it if they didn’t have it coming.”

A fleeting, broken, half-smile ghosted Clint’s lips for a second.

“What I’m disappointed in is that you let them. Clint, you let them reach inside and shatter all of your trust in me.”

“Phil-”

“I’m not done. It kills me to know that even after two and a half years, your faith in me is still so vulnerable, that it can be shaken by a bunch seventh graders.” He leaned a little closer. “Clint, have I ever done anything that would be remotely close what they were implying?”

“No!” His blue-grey eyes were wide and wild. “And that’s why I fought back.” Tears started to line the rim on his eyelids. “They were trying to put you in the same group as Dad or Carter or Jackson and I couldn’t let them do that!” A tear escaped and traveled down his cheek before it was wiped away viciously. “You’re nothing like them, Phil. And I couldn’t… let them…” the tears were coming faster than words. But for Phil it was enough. He moved to the couch, right beside Clint, and put his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“It’s okay, bud. Let it out.”

And the rage, the fear, and the heartbreak all rushed out in wet sobs that were absorbed into Phil’s shoulder. The counselor leaned down and kissed the top of his son’s head.

Phil felt awful that he’d thought Clint’s trust could so easily be rattled, but the truth made that easily bearable. As the tears dried up, Phil held his son closer, and the very fact that he could, proved that if there was only one person on the planet that the boy had faith in, it was Phil.

And nothing would shake that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor boys! 
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. You are the best and I am truly grateful for you all! :)


	11. Chapter 11

Clint hadn’t told anyone. He’d kept it a secret even though he knew he shouldn’t have. But the fight was still fresh, his black eye still swollen, and he was waiting for things to die down before he stoked it with the news that he had discovered while going to bed the night of the fight.

His hearing aid, one of the temporary trial pair, was broken. The boy figured it happened when his head had been slammed against the locker when the leader had thrown him off. The plastic of the device was cracked, and it went on the fritz every now and then. He was limping along on just the one, but if he didn’t let someone know, then it would be pretty hard to explain the damage when he had to turn the pair back in.

He was sitting alone at lunch – a point that Phil occasionally brought up and suggested change, but the boy was still getting used to the idea of having friends, let alone attempting to make any – so he pulled the device out of his ear and set it next to his tray, staring at it intently, trying to figure out what to do. It was at that moment a neutral-colored tray joined his on the table, and its owner sat down across from him.

“Nice shiner,” the newcomer commented.

Clint just blinked in astonishment. This was Tony Stark. _The_ Tony Stark: most popular kid in school. And he was sitting down at Clint’s table. But it was the kid’s next sentence that threw Clint for a bigger loop. “Sorry about that.”

And then it clicked. The red haze of rage that had been present during the fight cleared enough in his memory for Clint to understand. Tony had been the victim. But who the hell would mess with Tony Stark?

“My, don’t be too chatty now,” Tony continued to rattle as he took a bite of his lunch.

“Sorry,” Clint responded quietly. Then, “You’re welcome, I guess.”

The popular kid folded his hands and then rested his chin on them, staring at the boy’s black eye. “Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts.”

Clint shrugged. “It’s not the first one I’ve had.”

Tony tilted his head in curiosity and looked ready to ask about it until Clint glared daggers his way.

“Okay,” Stark gathered, “touchy subject.” He took another bite of food before continuing, “But it is nice to know I’m not the only one ‘ole Mandarin can take a swing at.”

“Whad’ya do?”

“Believe it or not he gets real bitchy about some of the things I say. Claims I have a tendency to run my mouth.”

“Go figure,” Clint answered, picking at his food.

Tony skated on, unfazed, “Still, going all punchy on the situation seems a bit rude.” He studied the younger boy before him before drawing his eyebrows together. “No comment? Or are you just more the strong and silent type?”

Clint didn’t even look up.

“You really don’t talk much, huh?

“It’s hard to talk when you can’t hear,” the boy retorted, sharply indicating the hearing aid lying beside his tray. And while Clint went back to his lunch, Tony’s eyes stayed stuck to the device. He reached a hand out for it and Clint covered it with his palm out of instinct. Tony wasn’t the first person to try and take the boy’s hearing aids. Although, the purposes were completely different.

“May I?” Tony asked. And the tone with which he said it was completely unlike what he’d used so far that Clint almost couldn’t help but remove his hand from the aid. He extended it out to Stark who took it carefully and began examining it, turning it over and holding it up to the light. Clint watched as the guy noticed the cracks and dents and recognition dawned on his face.

“Did this happen during the fight?”

Clint nodded, keeping his eyes downward.

“You know I can fix this, right?”

“Really?” Was that the answer? Was it really that easy?

“Cross my heart.” And Tony did, if only for the dramatic effect.  “Give me about twenty-four hours, thirty-six, tops, and this puppy will be good as new.”

“Wow,” Clint awed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do.” He picked up his tray and started to leave when he called over his shoulder, “And pass that on to your brother. ‘Kay?”

Clint narrowed his brows in confusion for a second before he realized Tony must’ve been referring to Steve. “He’s not my…” but Stark was too far away to be listening anymore, and Clint wasn’t sure if the rest of that statement was true. Steve may not have been blood, but he’d so far tried harder than Barney ever had. And surely that counted for something.

 

Tony was true to his word, and by the next day had cornered Clint at the lunch table again, this time packing a small brown bag that had his lunch and Clint’s aid in it. He handed the younger boy back the device and Clint looked it over. The crack was gone, the dents pulled out, and when he put it in, the thing worked fine.

“Thanks, Tony. It-”

“Don’t thank me yet. I fixed that awful thing only ‘cause I promised I would, but couldn’t stand the idea of stopping there with the result being such trash. So,” he reached into the bag again and pulled out a small, silver case, “ _Voilà!_ ”

Clint carefully opened the small box, his jaw dropping at what was inside. They were small, tiny really, with clear plastic instead of off-flesh color. The mechanics were visible inside them, but when shaded, were so minute that they blended in like camouflage.

“Try ‘em out,” Tony urged. And with some reluctance, Clint did. He slipped his aids out and then replaced them with Tony’s new design. They were light; Clint could barely feel them on his ears. And the sounds were crisp, although a little too tin-y in the higher notes.

“Not quite right,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong?” Tony’s confident smile waned quickly.

“Nothing, it’s just… too much treble.”

Stark waved a hand passively. “And here I was thinking that it was something big. Give ‘em to me.”

Clint obeyed, peeling them from his ears to hand to Tony. Stark pulled out a thin screwdriver from his pocket like some kind of magic trick and began adjusting something in his invention. He handed them back with a “there” and Clint plugged them in again.

It was perfect. The sound was coming in like a perfectly tuned radio signal; interference was down, the sound was crystal clear. But that was a lot of sound to take in and after a few moments, Clint had to take them out.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little overwhelming. I’m not used to hearing that much sound.”

Tony smiled. “You like that. I by-passed the system in a way that would slim the device down but increase the range. Honestly, with these puppies, you can probably hear _better_ than most of the kids in school. I really should market these things. They’re quite aws-”

“Annoying,” Clint cut in. He sighed. “Look, Tony, thanks for fixing my hearing aid. Really. But these,” he pointed to the small plastic in his hands, “they’re too much.” He handed them back and Tony took them reluctantly.

“What if I scaled them back? Or added some kind of volume control?”

“Well, I guess, but that’s not the point. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, but what you’ve given me, Clint, is a challenge. And I need a challenge. I need a project to work on to keep my mind busy, to keep it off of the shit that’s going on at home.”

And suddenly Clint understood. This wasn’t debt; it was distraction. And while someone else might have asked for more explanation about the distress the young mechanic was under in his home life, Clint knew from experience that one didn’t always want to talk about it. So if Tony’s coping method was distraction by invention, Clint would help him all he could.

He handed the new aids over to Tony who smiled and promised them back, modified, tomorrow.

Clint grinned back and then after a beat asked the inventor what he knew about inhalers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Tony.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a Saturday in May; the sun was out; the natives were restless. Despite it having showered that morning and evaporating puddles making the outside air sticky with humidity, many people were out in their lawns or gardens, soaking up the sunshine and the warm weather. It had been a harsh, cold winter, and one that had long overstayed its welcome by lingering well into April. So most of the block was mad with spring fever and the boys were no exception.

Steve grabbed his bike and Clint his weathered baseball bat and glove – yes, I’ve got my helmet too, Phil – and the two of them made their way to the park near the house. Steve rode around on the paths while Clint practiced catching and hitting with the automated pitching machine that sat in the dingy excuse of a batting cage, covered by faded, stringy tarps, torn up from storm damage.

After awhile Steve rode by to see how the younger boy was doing. Clint never missed a ball. Whether it was catching or hitting, each time the kid connected with the sailing sphere.

“Wanna try?” he asked Steve after a little bit.

“Nah. I’m more of a broadside barn guy.”

Clint narrowed his brows at the reference, but shrugged it off. “Good ride?”

“Yeah. Kind of sloppy with all the mud puddles, but it was still fun.” Steve quirked his lips into a smile. “Wanna go for a spin?”

Clint’s shoulders tensed and a note of fear lit his eyes. It was an odd reaction for the younger boy. Steve wondered if maybe something had happened in the boys’ home involving a bike, but then it dawned on him that perhaps the answer was something much simpler. “No one ever taught you, huh?”

Clint hesitated a second before giving in and nodding.

“Well I can teach you,” the older boy offered with a wide grin and a small shrug to say that it was no trouble whatsoever to school Clint on something that tons of kids were taught how to do.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

And the fact that the younger boy stowed his gear and let the older one guide him to a straight, concrete path to learn how to operate something not quite stable or safe was a testament to their developing trust in each other.

Steve first lowered the seat to accompany Clint’s smaller size, and then the younger boy swung his leg over the crossbar and gripped the handles.

“Okay,” Steve began, “feet go on the pedals. Push off with whichever foot is dominant and then keep putting force downward. I’ll be in the back holding onto the seat until you get the hang of the balance.” 

Clint gave a confirming nod and then proceeded to follow Steve’s instructions as best as he could.

It was slow going for a while until Clint got the hang of kicking off and pedaling. His equilibrium proved to be a nonissue. The same knack that the kid had for climbing trees and balancing on the top bar of a swing-set came through on riding a bike.

Steering took another section of time, but eventually the boy got that down as well. Steve cheered him on and beamed at the grin plastered on Clint’s face as he grasped concept after concept and put them together. It was late afternoon before the pair decided they should head back home. Steve let Clint ride on the way back and carried the younger boy’s gear.

Clint would pedal ahead and then circle back to Steve, laughing and lightly teasing him about being so slow. Steve shook his head and called back once, “Got your wings now, huh, Hawkeye?” And he had never seen a wider smile on Clint’s face.

The younger boy pedaled on ahead a ways and it took Steve a minute to realize that he hadn’t circled back. His mind went into immediate protection mode and began conjuring up horrible scenarios as to why. He quickened his pace before eventually breaking into a run and calling out Clint’s name, all the while trying to imagine what he’d tell Mr. Coulson. _I lost your son. Sorry._ just didn’t seem to cut it. Especially since after the fight, Steve had been charged with protecting his “little brother” no matter what.

“Clint?” And damn it if his voice wasn’t shaking a little.

“Over here,” came a quiet reply that made Steve’s muscles turn to liquid with relief. He followed the voice and found Clint down on his haunches beside a Dumpster, the bike leaning up against the alley wall.

“What are you-”

“Don’t come any closer; you’ll scare him.”

Steve stopped and craned his neck to try and get a view similar to Clint’s.  He heard pathetic whimpering in response to Clint’s now outstretched hand and coupled with the younger boy’s gentle tone and encouraging words, Steve pieced it together. And that’s when he saw it. Him. A mangy mutt with dirty fur and a long-ago wounded eye.

“Clint, stop! He could have rabies.”

“There’s no foam around the mouth, Steve,” the boy disarmed as he continued trying to coax the animal out. “And he hasn’t growled once.”

“Still,” Steve muttered as he watched in equal parts wonder and concern as the boy finally managed to get the mutt to come out of the Dumpster’s shadow and into the offered arms. He touched his nose to Clint’s hand and then sniffed higher, all the while the kid kept comforting and encouraging the animal closer.

“That’s it. That’s a good boy.” And now Clint was petting him. Matted fur being methodically stroked. “Good dog.” The dog’s tongue shot out and sent a quick lick to Clint’s face, causing the boy to giggle. “Lucky thing we found you, huh? Yeah, you lucky thing.” The dog gave him another lick. “You like that? Lucky?”

Steve came closer now, let the dog sniff him, and then carefully raised his hand to scratch the animal behind the ears.

The mutt was thin, starving with visible ribs, and refused to put his front left paw on the ground. Steve examined the appendage and found a deep and dirty gash in the pad on the bottom.

“He’s hurt,” the older boy said softly.

Clint just hummed and continued stroking the dog’s filthy coat. “Steve, are you allergic to dogs?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. We’re taking him home.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but found that the words couldn’t come. This pathetic mutt was in need of care and it was so obvious from whom he would receive it. No one else was going to take in this abused stray, so leave it to the boy who knew what it was like to come to the rescue.

 

Phil was far less impressed. He watched from the front lawn where he’d been mowing the grass as the boys came in, Steve walking his bike, carrying most of Clint’s gear, while the other boy came leading a limping, miserable dog.

“What’s this?” he asked the boys once they’d reached the driveway.

“Lucky,” Clint responded enthusiastically, bending down to pat the animal on the head. “We found him in the alley.”

“Yeah, he smells like it,” Phil mumbled under his breath. He watched as the dog sidled up closer to Clint’s leg, his bad paw hanging in the air and eyes big and begging. Clint complied instantly, petting the dog some more, scratching behind his ears and skating his fingers gently over the animal’s visible ribs.

“Can we keep him, Phil? Please,” the kid nearly begged as he kept petting the pitiful excuse of a dog.

“No,” Phil answered bluntly.

Clint’s big blue eyes were suddenly locked with Phil’s, wide with questioning and confusion. “Why?”

Phil came closer, putting a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “Clint, a dog’s a lot of responsibility. And look at him; he’s barely clinging onto life. He’s going to be a lot of work and he might not make it. And even if he does, he’s probably someone else’s dog and they’re looking for him.”

“There’s no collar.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t someone else’s dog,” the man reasoned. He sighed as Clint’s still bewildered look slowly faded into more of one of defiance.

“But you take in strays all the time, Phil,” Clint argued, crossing his arms over his chest. “You took in me and Steve.”

“That’s different.”

“How so? It wasn’t that long ago you could see my ribs.”

Phil had to admit the boy had a point. And it hurt. Could he really stand here and tell him “no” when he’d done the same thing. It _was_ different. Clint and Steve had been human children, orphaned and in need of a home. But when Clint put it as “strays” suddenly it wasn’t so dissimilar. And Clint knew it.

Phil’s shoulders sagged in defeat as he said, “You have one week,” Clint beamed until Phil put up a hand, “but there are some serious conditions. One, you are in charge of him: feeding, walking, cleaning up after him, finding him a place to sleep, and no, not in your room. I’ll take care of buying the food, taking him to the vet and getting his shots, but the rest is you. Two: you have to make posters and put them around town saying that you’ve found him. If people are looking for him, we have to let them know. And three,” he looked pointedly at the animal that was now panting happily, “you _have_ to give him a bath. Now.”

Clint’s smile lit up his whole face as he hugged Phil and then led the dog to the meager backyard to wash him off with the hose. Steve followed, stopping inside to grab some soap.

It was quite the adventure as Lucky was more interested in biting at the stream of water than staying under it. But between both boys the dog got washed. Lucky shook off the water, drenching the boys and making them both laugh. The dog ran around the backyard a little to dry off but the sun was setting and the temperature, though still warm, was starting to drop.

Steve found an old blanket and asked Phil if they could give it to Lucky, to which he agreed. They made a nest for the dog in the corner of the garage with the blanket and two dishes for water and food. The dog eagerly lapped up the water and Clint would have refilled it twice before he left for the night.

But then came the situation of food. They didn’t have any dog food, but there was some leftover pizza in the fridge that they all consented Lucky could have. Clint sat down on the floor next to the dog and opened the bag. Lucky practically launched himself at the leftover slices, but Clint jerked them back. He broke the pizza into small little bites and dropped them into Lucky’s dish one by one.

The dog scarfed down the food eagerly and far too quickly.

“Easy, Luck. You’re going to get sick if you go to fast,” the boy warned sternly.

Steve opened the door that led to the garage to check up on Clint and the dog but stopped when he saw how Clint was feeding the animal one bite at a time and spacing them out with several long strokes to Lucky’s head.

“Slowly, Lucky. You’re stomach’s not as big as you remember it. Take it from someone who knows. There’s nothing worse than throwing up the only thing you’ve had in a few days.”

Steve closed his eyes at that and held his breath to keep from breaking down.

Things had been rough for a long time for his mother and him, but between the two of them they always managed to have enough food to last them the week. Clint didn’t have that growing up, and it made him wonder how old the younger boy was when he learned the lesson he was coaching the dog on now.

Steve cleared his throat and walked into the garage. “How’s it going?”

“He keeps begging for more and I’m starting to get worried that he’s gonna throw it up. But I want to make sure that he’s had enough, you know?”

Steve nodded. “We can feed him first thing in the morning; that way he’ll have time to digest what he’s had now but won’t have to go a long time without food.”

Clint bobbed his head in agreement and gave Lucky a good scratch behind the ears. Steve gently took the dog’s injured paw and looked it over. They had carefully cleaned out the scape on his pad and what was left was a gnarled scratch that, while no longer bleeding, still looked like it might need some treatment.

“Did Phil get ahold of the vet?” Clint asked.

“Yeah. This big guy’s got an appointment tomorrow afternoon,” Steve answered petting Lucky’s head. The dog’s tongue lolled out in a happy pant.

“Okay, boys,” Phil’s voice from the doorway sounded, “time for bed.”

Clint frowned a little and looked ready to argue but surrendered. He kissed Lucky on the top of the head and followed Steve inside. But he turned once he was there and saw the dog’s big brown eyes watching him the whole way.

“Night, Lucky.”

The dog answered back with a muted bark and Clint smiled.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LUCKY! What? I had to put the dog in it. :) 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone! You all are the best. You're Kudos, comments, bookmarks, and readings are what dreams are made of.


	13. Chapter 13

Phil hung up the phone and collapsed his head into his hands. He’d been at it for weeks now and there was _nothing_. No special needs home had any room and Phil couldn’t – wouldn’t – put Steve in anything less. Each call ended the same way, with him being put on a waiting list in case space opened up, but he highly doubted it.

Not that he minded Steve; the boy was polite and a great help around the house, a good role model for Clint. And now that the two got along, they were becoming inseparable.

It occurred to him then that maybe it was a good thing that there was no other home to take Steve because it would mean severing one of the only friendships Clint had. Then again, the day would come when that would have to happen and it taking so long would only make it harder to separate the two when the time came.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked out the window. It was middle May and the world was turning to summer. Birds and other small wildlife flittered about on the playground. Leaves were turning a darker shade of green on the trees.

Absently he rubbed at the Band-Aid on the meat of his palm. Lucky was still… adjusting to Phil. When he’d taken him to the vet, the dog had cowered and whimpered when Coulson came anywhere near him. Clint wound up coming along because the dog wouldn’t move otherwise. And when Phil had gone to try and pet the dog earlier this morning, the animal had lashed out, grazing his teeth on the man’s hand.

The vet had explained that it was most likely an abuse situation, that Lucky had probably been hit by an adult male. Clint was viewed as nonthreatening because he was so young. And maybe the dog could sense a kinship with the boy who had come from a similar situation.

In the few days that had followed the vet visit, the dog had gotten a bit more accustomed to Phil, but still reacted negatively unless Clint  - or sometimes Steve - was there. Phil decided not to take it personally and to treat the newest member of the “family” as he would any domestic abuse case. He’d made some progress, but the nip at his hand was proof that he still had a ways to go.

He leaned back in his chair and eyed the paperwork that was still mounded on his desk. The end of the school year was always so busy, and he was grateful that Steve was there to help with Clint. But he also missed his boys due to his loaded schedule and decided then and there that he’d take a break on Sunday and take the boys, and Lucky, to the park.

He paused a second to ponder on when it had become “his boys.”  It had been so seamless, accepting Steve into the home that it really hadn’t been a stretch to group him in with his son.

For a brief second he considered adopting the other boy as well, but stopped. Right now the state was paying him the funds for fostering the kid and that was money that was really needed. But he could only hold onto Steve for so long before he’d _have_ to enter the system.

An idea sprouted in his mind, and while he shook it off, it didn’t necessarily go entirely away…

…

Lucky sniffed at a flower bed that sat nestled on the edge of the sidewalk before passing it up to check out the tree further up. His sudden change in interest pulled on the leash and therefore Clint as he held it.

“What? The daisies ain’t good enough for ya?” the boy questioned as Lucky continued to smell around the tree.

“Maybe he’s just looking for something with more bark than bite?” Steve offered with a clever grin.

Clint rolled his eyes at the pun but Lucky was off again to inspect another piece of foliage.

It was then that a fancy car pulled up, slowing down so that it came to rest beside the curb. It was slick, black, and more expensive than anything Clint could even name. The passenger door opened and with it came a called out, “Yo, Barton,” as Tony Stark unfolded from the vehicle and walked over to where Steve and Clint were standing. Even Lucky had diverted his attention to the newcomer.

“I missed you at lunch today. What happened?” the young mechanic asked, pulling off his aviator sunglasses and folding them so that they hung on the front of his shirt.

“You have lunch with Tony Stark?” Steve inquired, surprised.

Clint shrugged it off. “Pepper was helping me study for a spelling test,” he replied to Tony, running a hand over the back of his neck. He hated referencing his disability with letters to Stark: boy genius.

“Oh,” was the reply. And then, “Wait. Pepper? As in Pepper Potts?”

Clint nodded. And the expression that crossed Tony’s visage was one that Barton had never seen before. But it was similar to when Steve talked to or about Peggy, so Clint filed that information away for another day.

Tony shook out of his thoughts and tilted his head towards Lucky who was sitting beside Clint, tongue out, doggy smile on. “Who’s the mutt?”

Clint frowned at the derogatory term, but answered. “Lucky.”

“Hmm. He need anything built?”

Clint pondered that a second before saying, “I’ll let you know if he does. Speaking of which, you got something for me?”

“I do indeed,” Stark responded happily, fishing something out of his pant’s pocket. “One inhaler locator, as promised.”

Steve’s brows narrowed. “One what?”

Clint handed the newly designed inhaler and matching watch to Steve and nodded his head to Stark to explain, even though he was sure the mechanic would have done so without a cue.

“The watch has a button on it that sends a signal to the inhaler. When pressed, the canister will light up and flash. See? No more late night mad hunts for a missing inhaler.”

Steve watched in awe as the device was demonstrated before him. “That’s… that’s really cool, Tony. Thanks.” He paused a second as a frown tilted his lips downward. “Is this because of that fight?”

“You mean the one you saved me from? Kind of. But also because hawk boy has some neat ideas and fun challenges to tackle. This was one of them. You like?”

“Yeah!” Steve smiled and carefully slipped the inhaler into his pocket before strapping the watch onto his wrist. It looked old, classic, but the multiple buttons on the side indicated that was probably only designed to appear that way. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Tony replied, slipping his sunglasses back on. He turned to go back to the car where the other boys could see a man in a suit waiting patiently in the driver’s seat. “See you at lunch, Barton.”  

Clint tossed him a wave as the car sped off.

Once the racing machine disappeared, Steve turned to his foster brother with raised brows.

“You seriously have lunch with Tony Stark?”

Again Clint shrugged. “For being so rich and popular, the guy doesn’t actually have many friends?”

Steve just shook his head. “I swear, Clint, between you and Mr. Coulson, there won’t be any strays left in this town.”

The younger boy waited until the older one was turned away before smiling. It was true; Clint did have a tendency to gravitate towards those that needed someone to, well, to just exist with. And if that meant taking in a beat-up dog or a polished but lonely billionaire, Clint was more than happy to help.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, but I thought it would be nice to kind of check in with everyone.


	14. Chapter 14

The week time limit for Lucky had come and gone without much fanfare. No one had called them regarding any of the posters they had put up; no one had come knocking on the door looking for their long lost pup. So Lucky had silently become part of the family and Clint couldn’t have been happier. The dog was filling back out, becoming more muscle than rib in the belly, and had slowly begun to accept that Phil was not a threat.

The animal did have some trouble, though, with his depth perception due to his damaged eye and it lead to the dog knocking his head against more than one hard surface. Clint sympathized: partly blind couldn’t be any more fun than partly deaf. But Lucky was just as resilient as his owner and the two became incredibly close.

And that closeness would prove to be essential.

 

Steve woke up with a dry mouth. That happened sometimes; allergies clogged up his nose and forced his mouth to hang open to get air.

He tossed off his covers and went to get a drink of water from the bathroom. But on his way back he heard Lucky barking and his nails scratching at the door. Steve narrowed his brows at the very un-Lucky-like behavior. The dog rarely even yipped, let alone full on barked.

Steve made his way downstairs and to the door that lead to the garage. The scratching stopped as the dog smelled the approaching human. Steve carefully opened the door.

“Lucky?”

The dog pushed past Steve and through the opening, bolting lightning fast to the stairs and making short work of climbing them. Steve followed behind, calling the dog’s name in a loud whisper. He found Lucky in Clint and his room, pawing at the slim ladder that went up to Clint’s bunk. Steve checked up on the younger boy and found him tossing and turning, most likely having a nightmare.

“It’s okay, Lucky,” Steve began, resting a gentle hand on the dog’s head. “He’d just having a nightmare. He gets those sometim-” but the dog let out a loud bark and Steve’s eyes snapped back up to Clint. He felt the air change. Something was very wrong.

And then it started. Clint seized up and then began shaking violently. Steve sprinted to Phil’s room, yelling the whole time.

Phil woke up with a start to find Steve frantically trying to get his attention.

“It’s Clint. He’s-”

But Steve didn’t need to finish for Coulson to get a burst of panic. He sprang up from his bed and ran after Steve. Once in the room, his heart immediately stopped beating.

“Get him a pillow,” Phil ordered as he carefully slipped his hands under his son’s convulsing body. He lifted him over the bunk’s bar and quickly laid him down on the floor, cautiously positioning Clint’s head on the pillow that Steve had pulled off of his bed. Phil turned the boy onto his side as he ordered Steve to get a wet washcloth from the bathroom and a towel. Steve was back a moment later, handing the requested objects to Phil who just held them and then leaned back, watching in horror as his son continued to seize and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Steve had never seen anything like it and it terrified him. His eyes stayed transfixed on the boy but he wanted nothing more than to look away. The whimpering of Lucky over in the corner drew his attention for a split second but it was enough to break the hold the sight before him had over him. He rested a hand on Lucky’s blocky head, distractedly stroking the soft fur there while his eyes returned of their own volition to where Clint was on the floor. 

A horrible sound came from the younger boy’s mouth as he threw up. Liquidy vomit dripped down his chin and pooled on the floor. The convulsions continued.

It might have been a few minutes or an entire year, Steve couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that eventually it stopped. Clint’s worn-out body settled on the floor, practically molding with it. Phil carefully wiped the boy’s mouth and cheek with the washcloth, running a soothing hand over Clint’s head, fingers brushing back soft blonde hair.

The world was still and quiet, as if holding its breath waiting for the younger boy to awaken.

At last Clint’s eyes fluttered open as a broken little whimper escaped his mouth. “Phil?” he choked out.

“I’m right here, buddy,” Coulson replied, continuing to run his hand over Clint’s head gently. “You’re okay. Just relax. It’s over.”

Lucky suddenly jerked out of Steve’s hand and rushed over to the boy on the floor. As if out of duty to his master, the dog began to lick the remaining vomit off of Clint’s cheek before Phil roughly pushed the animal away with a harsh reprimand and an order to Steve to, “Get him the hell out of here.” The older boy knew Coulson’s anger was actually just shaky fear, but as for the animal, not so much. Lucky let out a low growl as he sized up Phil, but calmed down when Steve placed a cautious hand on the dog’s head. Lucky whimpered but obeyed as Steve led him out of the room and back down to the garage where he sat in the dog’s bed and stroked his fur. Lucky curled up in Steve’s lap and let him pet him but didn’t take his eyes from the door.

Eventually the door leading to the garage opened again and Phil had Clint cradled in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.

“I’m taking him to the hospital, make sure nothing’s damaged,” Phil mumbled, carefully putting Clint in the back seat of the car.

“I’m coming too,” Steve stated intently. Phil didn’t protest so the older boy loaded up into the passenger seat after slipping a leash on Lucky and hooking it to the wall, making sure he could still reach his water and food bowls. The dog moaned but stayed when Steve ordered him to sit.  

The ride was mostly silent until Phil broke it with, “What was Lucky doing there anyway?” There was still a note of hostility in it, but it was so faded and muted it barely counted.

“I woke up and heard him barking,” Steve answered, keeping his eyes out the window at the dark scenery just starting to receive color from the slowly rising sun. “When I opened the door, he bolted upstairs.” He paused a second before inquiring, “You think he knew?”

Phil kept driving but eventually sighed and with that came a release of pent up tension so strong that the man looked visibly older with weariness. “Possibly.” A beat. “Yes.”

Steve couldn’t help but notice the ever so small smile that came across Phil’s lips at the answer, and it was such a balm that Steve relaxed at the mere sight of it. 

Clint moaned in the back seat drawing Steve’s eyes there. He watched as the boy tightened in on himself some more before settling again. Steve turned his gaze back to Phil and in a hushed tone asked, “How do you stand it? Just sitting there, not able to do anything, waiting until it’s over.”

There was silence for a beat or two before Coulson answered with a heavy release of breath. A confession. “I don’t. I forget how to breathe every time.”

And it was silent the rest of the trip to the ER.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, guys. I really am. (But it's essential to the story.)
> 
> Also, I'd like to say welcome to the start of the ride, everyone. From here on out it only gets more hectic as blasts from the past start showing up. So tune in next week! 
> 
> Thank you again to those who read, comment, Kudos, and bookmark. You all are truly the best and I am grateful for each and every one of you!!! :)


	15. Chapter 15

The hospital ran the typical tests and kept Clint overnight and into the next set of twenty-four hours. It was both a relief and a pity that the staff was starting to know both Clint and Phil by name. It sped things along but it also meant that Clint had been there enough for them to be familiar with his case. Maybe it was time to really consider some medication…

Phil was glad that Steve was there though, to help pass the time, to be a hand to hold as they both waited for Clint to wake up.

After the younger boy had been conscious and passed out again, Phil slipped out to get some paperwork from the car he’d brought home to work on – graduation was only a week away and those stacks on his desk hadn’t gotten much smaller – leaving Steve to watch over Clint who had Hawkeye nestled in the crook of his tube-and-wire-bound elbow.

He observed as his foster brother slowly peeled open his eyes and sluggishly focused them.

“Steve?” he croaked.

“Hey, Clint.”

“Where’s Phil?”

“He went to grab some paperwork. He’ll be right back.”

And the boy looked comforted enough by that statement to let his eyes droop a little. He tightened his hold on Hawkeye and resettled his gaze back on Steve. “You okay?”

Steve laughed a little at that. “You’re the one in the hospital.”

“Yeah I know.” He poked at the sticky pad of the electrode on his heart that relayed its finding to the monitor on the side. “And I can’t wait to get out.”

Steve just quirked a smile and softly shook his head. Leave it to Clint to already be tired of a place he’d only be aware he was in after two minutes.

“Well when you do, you’ll have to pet the living daylights out of Lucky; he’s worried sick about you.”

And Clint grinned wide. “Don’t worry. I will.”

 

Phil, Steve, and Clint waited in the lobby while Coulson checked his son out of the hospital. Clint was confined to a wheelchair because policy dictated it. Steve stood next to him and rolled his eyes at the boy’s bored posture. He could tell Clint thought the wheelchair was total bullshit but had been through this enough times to be borderline tolerant of the drill.

Steve caught sight of Phil still waiting on paperwork to sign at the desk when the suddenly someone called Clint’s name.

The younger boy turned his head to find a familiar face hailing him with a smile that was not reciprocated.

“Gawd, it’s been forev’r, Hawkeye,” the newcomer greeted, Southern accent blazing, as he continued to stroll up.

“Yeah, it has.” Clint agreed, though far less enthusiastically. 

The newcomer just stood there, looking down at Clint with a smile that was starting to wane at the now stretching silence. He flicked his eyes over to Steve and gave a small nod. “What? You ain’t gonna introduce me?”

Clint let out a small indiscernible noise before sighing and motioning the introductions with his hand. “Steve this is Trick. Trick, Steve, my foster brother.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve greeted as warmly as he could. Trick’s hands were ice cold and bony and it felt to Steve like he was shaking hands with an exhumed skeleton. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh yeah,” Trick questioned slyly. “All bad I hope.” He let out a strained laugh that he waved away before returning his attention to Clint. “So what’s with them spokes, compadre?” He kicked lightly at the wheelchair’s rubber stoppers on the back wheels.    

Clint rolled his eyes. “Hospital thing. Happens every time I go home after a seizure.”

Trick’s eyes softened at that and a frown came to his lips, pulling down on his features and making him look a fraction more sincere. “Aw, man, that blows. Ya okay?”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, just on my way out.” A beat then, “You?”

“Aww,” Trick dismissed in a drawl. “Just a check-up. Thing my burly, ex-French Foreign Legion PO is a stickl’r on; ya know what I mean? You’d like him, though, Clint. Real keen eyes, just like you.”

“PO?”

“Parole officer.”

“So you’re out?”

“Yeah? Funny how good behavior’ll do that. Anyway, I gotta go an’ meet him, repot in and all that. Then I’m offta go meet some others that are celebratin’ bein’ on this side-a-da bars. You remember Hammer Toe John right? And Nicotine Howe?”

“Nicotine Howe?” Steve interjected.

“Yeah. Well his real name is Nick, but he was the guy ya could always getta smoke from back in Carter’s boy’s home.” Trick leaned in and dropped his voice. “He says he’s got some pretty high-end stuff for us to sample today. Ya know what I mean?” He practically giggled on the end in anticipation.

“Should you really be doing that?” Steve tried to sway.

Trick laughed and pinned Clint down in his gaze. “Where’d ya meet this guy, Hawkeye?” But when Clint gave no answer, Trick turned to Steve and glared him down. “Listen here, boy scout. When ya lived life goin’ through as much shit as I have, you’re pretty willin’ to take a risk on dyin’ young. Al’right?” He cast a knowing glance over to Clint. “’Course, could be worse. Could be Jackson; right, buddy?” He laughed again, but Clint just hung his head, looking very uncomfortable. It was an expression that struck Steve and refused to leave. Whoever, or whatever, Jackson was, it was an extremely sore spot to Clint.

Trick stopped his crowing at that and then extended a hand out to rest on Clint’s small shoulder. “Aww, sorry, kid. I didn’t mean it like that. Not the way it sounded, anyways.”

Clint shrugged off the hand but murmured, “S’okay.” He took in a breath and forced a hopeful look into his eyes. “You hear anything about Barn?”

Trick shook his head. “Sorry, little man. We got sep’rated last Christmas; he didn’t quite git the concep’ of “good behavior” like I did.” He ended it with a small smile as if trying to soften it with a joke. But none of it was funny and they all knew it.

Phil was done with paperwork and come over with a confused look on his face. “Who’s this?” he asked in a tone that indicated polite curiosity, but was edged with a note of protection. No one was excused from stranger danger in his book. Especially Clint.

“Buck Chisholm,” the stranger stated, sticking out his hand and Phil took it with an air of caution. “Better known as Trick Shot.”

Clint went on with the introduction, saying, “Trick, this is Phil; he’s my… he adopted me.”

Trick’s eyes strayed from Phil’s and his grin turned wicked. “Well you just replaced your whole damn family, huh?”

Clint looked like he’d been hit. He opened his mouth to say something but Trick just waved it off with a teasing grin. “Aww, I’m just kiddin’ ya, Hawkeye.” He punched Clint’s arm, three playful jabs with alternating fists. Phil looked ready to have an aneurism. But Clint’s lips managed to tug into a smile and some of the tension bled out of the situation. 

Trick straightened up. “Hey listen, little man, I gotta get hittin’ it. But you take care now; you hear?” He leaned in and gave Clint a hug, though it was kind of awkward around the wheelchair. He didn’t pull away immediately though, and under the pretense of the parting gesture, he whispered, “Pretendin’ these mooks are you’re family’s fine fer now. But just you remember who you’re goin’ to call to come clean up your mess when you’re fina’ly done playin’round.” He patted the younger boy on the back once, hard, and then straightened again. “Nice meeting ya,” he tossed over his shoulder as he left.

Phil took a moment to examine his son as he watched his once friend disappear out the hospital doors. Clint looked shaken and worried. And tried. Really tired. So instead of pressing the issue he went around back of the wheelchair to take hold of the handles. “Ready?”

Clint just nodded.

Steve trailed behind, still replaying the whole encounter. He wasn’t sure what to think of Trick Shot other than that the guy must be an acquired taste. He seemed to Steve to be a bit of a bully, but not in any way that would be obvious. He was like a splinter that you didn’t know was under your skin until you tried to take it out. That’s when it hurt.

He wasn’t sure Clint had caught it, or if he even knew to look for it, but Steve had also picked up that Trick had been lying. _A check-up my foot_ , the kid thought. He’d been through it enough with his mother to know the signs. Trick Shot wasn’t here for a check-up; he’d been here for a chemo treatment. Possibly an early one by the looks of it. But still a treatment nonetheless. And the fact that he’d failed to mention that to Clint told Steve something about Trick Shot that helped explain Clint’s own tendencies. These were boys who had lived through so much pain only to be dropped in a place where showing it was viewed as weakness. And in that environment, weakness got you hurt.

 _Maybe_ , Steve added darkly, _even_ _killed._

Lucky was allowed into the house and the dog settled at the floor of the couch next to Clint’s dangling hand. The younger boy had practically collapsed the second they’d gotten home and Phil had tucked him in on the couch.

“You okay,” he’d asked as the boy’s eyes drooped and his lips pulled into a frown.

“Yeah, just really tried,” was the reply, but Phil couldn’t quite shake the sense that maybe seeing Trick hadn’t helped the situation any.

He kissed Clint’s temple and ran his fingers over his soft blonde hair. “Sleep tight.”

He left to go into the kitchen and found Steve there, sitting at the table with a serious look on his face and a hard determination in his eyes.

“Yes?” Phil inquired, raising a brow at the severity of the boy’s expression.

“Is it still my responsibility to protect him?”

Phil gathered his brows in a knot. “Yes…”

“Then I believe I have a right to know who or what is ‘Jackson’?”

Coulson’s shoulders sagged and he took a seat across from Steve at the table. He was silent a moment before pulling in a breath. “Jackson Parker was one of boy’s at the home. He…tormented Clint. Beat on him, starved him.” He took another breath. “Anyway, one night things got out of hand and Jackson was beating Clint to a pulp. Clint managed to get a leg up and pushed Jackson off of him. But they were in the loft of a barn and Jackson…fell. His skull split open. Clint was sent to the hospital and Barn and Trick testified that it was all in self-defense. Which it was.” Coulson stressed the last part and Steve nodded in understanding. Phil ran a hand over his face. “I’m not sure how much he remembers. But I have a feeling it visits his nightmares. And he doesn’t know that I know. And he never will. This conversation doesn’t leave this table. Understand?”

Again Steve nodded with solider-like obedience.

“Good.” He stood up and began working on lunch.

Steve debated a second before adding. “You don’t have to worry about Trick Shot, Mr. Coulson.”

Phil turned around with narrowed eyes.

Steve shrugged. “He didn’t tell Clint he was there getting chemo. So I figure he’s either planning on dying before he sees him again, or will purposely stay away until the treatment is over.”

Phil nodded but had a distant look in his eye. Again he said, “Good,” but followed it up with a quick, “Go take your insulin.”

And Steve left without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always kind of imagined Trick's personality to be similar to Frank Lutz's on The Unusuals (a show Renner was in.)


	16. Chapter 16

Graduation had come and gone, and the boys were out of school on summer vacation.

Long hours had been spent at the park playing with Lucky. Phil was glad he could now go with the boys; he enjoyed being able to watch them running, laughing, goofing off. It also relieved him that he could keep an eye on them. Steve might not think that Trick Shot was a problem, but Phil couldn’t shake his paternal instinct to keep his son from having to deal with that issue.

Clint had seemed to be taking it okay; in fact it looked like the little visit from his friend hadn’t bothered him at all. But there were moments when the younger boy would glance over his shoulder or get a worried look in his eyes and those were what kept the incident at the front of Phil’s brain. He’d noticed that Trick had said something to Clint when he’d hugged him, but the boy had yet to say anything about what that particular conversation was. And that bothered Phil probably more than it should.  

The evenings had fallen into a pattern of alternately teaching Lucky to climb up ladders – in case of another seizure, the boy had argued – and slowly piecing together a doghouse for Lucky in the backyard. It wasn’t much of a yard, but even with the doghouse it would still be bigger than the garage.

They’d gotten the wood from recycled shipping pallets and Clint and Steve worked on designing a blueprint before settling on a traditional structure. Tony Stark had offered to help, but Clint turned him down; he wanted to make something for his dog himself. And it turned out the younger boy was great with his hands.

Lucky loved the little house and it was good that they’d finished it just in time to receive some visitors.

Cora and Dan.

Mrs. Nathan had called earlier in the week to say that they’d be by on Thursday and that she was very excited to meet the boys.

Because he’d wanted to give the impression that he had things under control and could handle being a single dad with two boys, Phil had transformed into a cleaning Nazi to get the place in order for his in-law’s visit. It was strange considering them as in-laws still since there was no longer a connection there. But Cora and Dan had built their half of the bridge and Coulson was eager to finish his so that the sides could join.

The boy’s had only kind of grasped what was happening, but they knew enough that when Phil said the towels had to be folded neatly and not just wadded up – Clint – and the corners of the kitchen also swept – again, Clint – the boys did it without hesitation. Because these people were important to Phil so they were important to the boys. It was just that simple.      

Thursday rolled around and the house was cleaner than it had been since Audrey was still there. It gave the place a strange form of nostalgia that Phil would probably have pondered if it wasn’t for the older couple ringing the doorbell.

Cora greeted Phil with a warm hug as he opened the door. She really had missed him and seeing him again was stirring up dozens of repressed emotions. She missed her daughter, her grandson, but she’d also missed Phil. And of the three he was the only one she could fix that with.

When she finally let go, Phil shook hands with Dan. The man’s hair was much grayer than the last time Coulson had seen it, but Dan was still as solid as ever – being a veteran and now retired electrician tended to keep a certain sternness in his brow.

Cora had moved on to the boys whom she hailed with a wide grin and open heart.

“You must be Steve,” she addressed as she approached the older boy.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve replied politely.

“Well Phil wasn’t exaggerating about your manners,” she praised with smile. “And that must make you Clint.”

The younger boy nodded once and simply said, “Hi.”

Cora was tempted to rumple Clint’s hair but refrained. Phil had told her they were special needs cases and that Clint especially had come from a rough household. So instead she moved on with, “I’ll have to run out and get them, but I have something for both of you.”

Steve looked curious and Clint smiled in excitement.

Dan met the boys while Cora went back and retrieved two packages from the car. She reentered the house to see Phil eyeing the gifts with a questioning look.

“Oh don’t worry, Phil. I’m just spoiling my grandkids.”

It was a toss-away statement, but spoke volumes to how Cora and Dan had never really left Phil’s life as long as he chose to accept them.

“Here we are,” Cora said handing each of the boy’s their present. Steve got his opened first and grinned. It was some show on PBS that dealt with a daring WWII escape from a POW camp.

“Thank you,” he expressed turning the set of DVDs over in his hands.

“Phil mentioned you were a history buff so I figured you’d enjoy that. You’ll have to sit down and talk to Dan about his time in the service. Vietnam,” she added off his look.

Clint opened his gift and narrowed his brows before smiling wide as the moon.

“I know you’ve already read the novel, but I thought this might be a nice change of pace.”

It was a graphic novel version of Robin Hood called _Outlaw._ Clint took in the slick pages containing beautifully illustrated scenes of his favorite literary character saving the day with his iconic bow and arrow, green hood hanging over his head, concealing his face.

Cora leaned in and whispered, “Less words to swim around this way.” And Clint impossibly grinned wider.

“And now for your gift, Phil,” Dan added once the boys were done opening theirs. He clapped the man on the back and announced, “A night out. Dinner and wine on us. Tonight. Just the three of us.” 

Phil looked ready to protest but upon sharing a look at Steve who was old enough to stay home by himself as well as take care of Clint, the man gratefully accepted.

“That sounds wonderful,” he agreed.

“And don’t worry, we’ll order in pizza for the boys,” Cora added.

“It’ll have to be from the place on 7th,” Phil interjected. “They have the diabetic-friendly one.” He glanced at Steve who nodded in recognition.

“Can we bring in Lucky for the left overs?” Clint inquired.  

“Lucky?” Dan asked.

“Our dog,” Phil clarified. “Clint found him, brought him in.”

“Gee, sound like anyone you know,” Cora teased lightly with a smile and pointed look at Phil. The man just rolled his eyes in good humor.

“Well I’ll give you tour,” Phil announced, “show you where you’re going to stay.”

Cora and Dan followed while Steve and Clint put up their gifts and eventually retreated outside, Steve to sketch and Clint to play fetch with Lucky.

Despite not being very strong - side effect of still being so small– Clint still had incredible aim and he used that to his advantage. The yard was limited but had fences on three of the sides. Clint would get Lucky a bit more exercise by tossing the ball and getting it to bounce off of the fences in as many ways as he could think of. Dan happened to be watching out the window and couldn’t help but comment, “Quite a talent your boy’s got there, Phil. You ever consider putting him in T-ball?”

“He has hearing aids and seizures, and is still bordering under weight. Do you really think sports are a good idea?”   

Dan shrugged. “Be a shame to waste that arm is all.”

“I get the impression that nothing would stand in the way of Clint getting what he wants,” Cora cut in.    

“What he wants is to do archery, but he’s still too young, needs another two years on him, and even then I’m afraid he won’t be strong enough.”

Cora put a gentle hand on Phil’s shoulder. “You worry about him too much, Phil. You were the same way about…”

Silence took over the room as thoughts circled back to the two family members that were no longer there. It was uncomfortable and melancholy and stretched on far too long until Cora mumbled, “I think I’m going to go see what Steve’s drawing.”

The men watched her leave to go outside with the boys.

“I know it’s been tough on her,” Phil stated defeated. 

“It’s been tough on all of us. You included.”

Phil sighed as Dan clapped him on the back and announced, “C’mon. I’ve got some beer in the camper.”  

 

Dinnertime eventually came around. The boy’s pizza arrived just as the adults were ready to head out the door.

Phil addressed Steve first, commanding, “You call me if you need anything. And if anything happens-”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Coulson. I can handle it.”

Phil nodded once but was still a little hesitant. “You know what to do if he has a seizure?”

“Yes.”

“And I know how to handle an asthma attack,” Clint cut in with a small smile. “We’ve got it under control, Phil.”

Again Coulson nodded and then kept nodding as he finally accepted that boys would be fine for a few hours on their own. “Okay,” he agreed. “Be good,” he added because he felt like he needed to.

Clint rolled his eyes as Steve said, “Yes, sir.”

Cora, Dan, and Phil left; Phil tossed a wave over his shoulder, taking a moment to absorb the sight of the boys being on their own. He shook off his concerns and decided that they’d be all right and that he’d have a great time reconnecting with the in-laws.

 

The restaurant was borderline black-tie, the lighting soft, the food extremely good, and the wine free flowing. Phil had to watch how much the waiter refilled his glass because the guy was so quick and efficient, had Phil blinked, he’d have missed it. Good thing Dan had offered to be the DD for the evening.

The small group of three ate and laughed and talked, reconnecting and catching up on the all the changes over the past three years.

After awhile the conversation had turned towards the boys and Cora had to smile at how animatedly Phil talked about them. Perhaps that was the wine taking effect.

“There are times I get greedy, though,” Phil stated, suddenly sombering up the tone of the conversation.

“How do you mean?” Dan asked.

“Well, like with Clint. There are times when I wish he was mine from the start; that I could’ve held him as a baby; that I could have kept him from having to live through the hell that he did.”

“I would think that’s only natural,” Cora consented, taking another sip of her drink.

“But it’s selfish. He was someone else’s baby, someone else’s happiness.” He frowned at the glass in front of him. “Even if they didn’t appreciate it. Or want it.” But that thought made him even sadder and the table quieter until Dan piped up.

“Well that’s why he has you now, Phil. To get what he missed out on earlier in his life.”

And they all clinked their glasses to that.

The conversation turned to the couple’s upcoming trip to go see the twins when suddenly Phil’s phone rang. He excused himself and went to the bathroom so he could hear and then answered.

“Steve? Everything all right?”

“No.”

And Phil’s heart began to pound. “What is it?”

“I can’t find Clint.”

“What do you mean you can’t find him?”

“We were watching the series Cora gave me when Clint said he was going to go take the pizza crusts to Lucky. But after fifteen minutes he wasn’t back yet so I went to check up on him but he wasn’t out there. And neither was Lucky.”

Phil wanted to bolt out of the restaurant that instant and rush home, but he forced himself to take a calming breath. He needed to be rational, logical on this if they were going to find him. And he needed to get Steve to calm down as well. “Did you check all his hiding places? The tree? The attic?”

“Yeah. All of them. Even Lucky’s doghouse, which I doubted he’d be in ‘cause I know he doesn’t like cramped spaces. But that’s when I found Lucky’s collar just lying there on the ground.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know.” He took a shaky breath. “I think Lucky might have slipped his collar and Clint took off to look for him.”

Phil frowned at that. It didn’t sound very Clint-like; he would’ve told somebody. But then again he’d always been impulsive about Lucky. And it was the only theory they had at the moment.

“Should I call the police?”

“Not yet, Steve. He’s probably just around the neighborhood.” At least that’s what he was telling himself. “You hang tight; we’ll be right there.”

He hung up and went back to the table, deep creases in his brows and he knew his breaths were not as even as they should be.

“Everything okay?” Dan asked.

Phil shook his head. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

“What’s wrong?” Cora inquired concerned.

“Clint’s missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO!!! Sorry about that. But it's vital that next week's two chapters go together (you'll thank me…maybe.) 
> 
> In case anyone it interested, there IS a graphic novel version of Robin Hood called Outlaw: http://www.amazon.com/Outlaw-The-Legend-Robin-Hood/dp/0763644005  
> And the documentary was the NOVA special "Escape from Nazi Alcatraz." http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/military/escape-nazi-alcatraz.html
> 
> Also, according to Diabetic Living online, there are several recipes for diabetic-friendlyier pizzas and they look really good. :) You can check that out too:http://www.diabeticlivingonline.com/search/site/pizza 
> 
> (I realize these aren't actually hyperlinks, but if you want to check 'em out, copy paste.) 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who reads, comments, Kudos, and bookmarks. I appreciate you guys so much and I'm sorry to leave you on such a cliff hanger. See ya next week! :)


	17. Chapter 17

Steve was bordering on panic and as a result was pacing the length of the living room like there was money in it.

It was his fault. Mr. Coulson trusted him to look out for his foster brother, to protect him, and he’d failed. Clint was missing and he had no idea where to even begin looking for him. If Lucky had still been there it would’ve been easy: just sic the dog after him. Lucky could probably find Clint in three seconds flat. But the dog was gone and so was Clint and Steve was terrified.

He could feel his lungs starting to constrict as his worry was beginning to bring on an attack. With some effort he climbed the stairs, taking a break on the landing before continuing to his room, and grabbed his inhaler, giving it a good long drag and taking some deep breaths. _Calm down, Steve_ , he told himself. _Think. Where could he have gone?_

He bounced the plastic inhaler in his hand and mulled it over in his head. But nothing was making sense and he was scared and-

The inhaler.

The button on his watch made it flash so he could find it.

Tony Stark.

Wishing he had the boy genius’s cell number, Steve rocketed to the kitchen to grab the phone book. Stark, Howard.

He dialed the number and had to almost laugh at the concept. _Hello, richest family in the state, region, possibly country. I’m kind of friends with your son, that is, he designed me an inhaler locater thing. Question, can you track my missing foster brother?_

A British voice answered the phone but it had a strange sound to it, almost as if it was computer generated.

“Stark residence.”

“Hi, yeah, uh… is Tony there?”

“Young master Stark is busy. May I ask who is calling and leave him a message?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean it’s urgent. Please, please, please put him on.”

There was silence for a while and Steve thought that maybe the line had gone dead but then suddenly it was filled with the too-cheery sound of Tony Stark.

“’Yello,” he greeted.

“Tony! Thank God. I need your help.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Steve. Clint’s-”

“Captain Flagg! What up, pal?”

He’d addressed the nickname later, maybe when his mind was less strained and freaked out. “Tony, listen to me. Clint’s missing.”

“Missing? What do you-”

“I need to know if you can track him.”

“What do you think I implanted a chip in him or something? He’s my lunchtime sounding board, not my puppy.”

“No, but you did build his hearing aids.”

“So.”

“So is there anything, anything at all in them that you could track? Anything that could show up on a GPS or something?”

“Steve, it’s not like I put an iPhone in his…”

But the inventor faded off and Steve wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wanted to scream and yell and find some kind of outlet for his pent up frustration and fear and was just about to blow when Tony said, “I’ll have to call you back.”

The dial tone sounded and again Steve was at a loss. He just prayed that Tony could find something to serve as a tracer.

Phil showed up shortly after the phone call with the sporadic inventor and he looked about as stable as Steve was. Which was closer to rotting Amazon jungle rope bridge than sturdy concrete overpass.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” he spilled, not even aware that he’d used the man’s first name.

Coulson placed his hands on Steve’s shoulders and shook his head. “Steve, this isn’t your fault.” He let go and then went straight for the phone but the small moment was enough to help ebb some of the worry from the older boy’s mind. At least his caretaker wasn’t going to kick him out over losing the man’s son.

Phil came back a moment later and monotonously announced that Ann Ross across the street hadn’t heard nor seen anything and that she’d keep her senses sharp in case she did. She would also alert her husband in case they did have to call the cops. It was handy sometimes having the chief of police living across the road.

Phil told Cora to wait in the house in case Clint came back while Dan took his truck to the other side of town and looked there. He and Steve would search the neighborhood and park.

 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Steve commented as his flashlight beam bounced off the swing set. His throat was getting soar from yelling out Clint’s name and his nerves were no closer to being soothed than when he’d first discovered Lucky and his owner missing. Speaking of which: “Lucky waited for Clint to come home every day and then jumped and licked and carried on as soon as he got home. He never once tried to get loose when we took him for walks, even if there was a squirrel or a cat or whatever.”

“What are you saying?” Phil asked, clearly rattled and becoming more so as the hunt for his son continued. They’d called the police after the first ten minutes of the search bore no fruit. An Amber Alert had been issued but so far there was no response.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t make any sense for Lucky to suddenly decide to slip his collar. Clint taking off to go after him I can see happening. But not Lucky deciding to run away. I mean, this is a dog who bolted into our bedroom to warn us about Clint’s seizure, who tried to clean him up afterwards. Lucky wouldn’t run away.”     

“So why is he missing?” It came off much harsher than it should have and Phil wanted to apologize, but Steve went on, completely understanding the misplaced anger in Phil’s words.

“I don’t know. Unless maybe it was his previous owner?” He shrugged to show that he was just spit balling. Sadly that theory didn’t make any more sense than the slipping-the-collar one, so both Phil and Steve went back to calling out into the darkness in the hope of finding Clint.

After another moment, Phil’s phone rang.

“Tell me you found him,” he spewed out in a rush, panic rising in his throat.

There was silence on the other end before the voice said, “Uhh… Mr. Coulson. Hi, Tony Stark. Steve called me, and the lady at the house number said to try you. Can you put the call on speaker?”

Phil was certain that given any other circumstances, he’d have been in awe that the son of the city’s richest and most famous man was calling his cell phone at eleven o’ clock at night. But Clint was still missing and Phil was still worried sick, and so he fumbled with the cell phone and eventually put it on speaker.

“What’cha got for me, Tony?” Steve asked after the genius rattled something off distractedly, unaware that Phil had finally activated the speakerphone function.

“An iPhone.”

“What?”

“The receivers I used to construct the reception end to his hearing aids were taken from some trashed phones I had a year or so ago.”

“What?” Coulson interrupted.

“Long story,” Steve answered.

Tony went on, “It took some tracking, but I was able to get the serial from it and discovered that I had one of the same model. So with a calculated trigger I could generate a response that could give us an approximated location…”

Tony’s techno babble went on for a few more moments but both Coulson and Steve were a little lost. Phil had truthfully gotten stuck in the comment about Tony building Clint hearing aids. Had he really not noticed his son had been wearing new aids? Had he really been that busy? Or did they not look any different? He doubted, though, that the son of Howard Stark wouldn’t try to at least put the company’s logo on the invention.

Steve was just waiting for the result.

“So I can get signal from the aids but I’d need to activate the trigger, which unfortunately will overload the battery.”

“Meaning what?” Steve asked.

“That the aid will go dead. Wherever Clint is, he’ll be operating off of only one hearing aid.”

Phil didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”

There was the sound of clicking on the other end of the line and then Tony hummed. “Okay, I’ve got the approx. location. It looks like he’s way out by the county line. North.”

Steve narrowed his brows. That was miles away. How had Clint gotten out there? He was about to say something when Phil exclaimed, “Damn it!”

“What?” Tony and Steve asked together.

“That’s where the boys’ home was.”

“What’s Clint doing out there,” Steve wondered aloud. But then it suddenly dawned on him. The hospital. It was there that Clint’s past had come for a visit. And if said visitor was really dying of cancer, perhaps he was on a mission to restore whatever justice he saw fit was owed him.

Phil quickly thanked Tony and then hung up.

“Do you really think Trick-”

But Steve was cut off by the glare Phil gave him that told the boy Coulson more than thought Clint’s “friend” was capable of doing what they suspected he did. And even though the why of it was still a little fuzzy, Steve nodded in response.

 Phil called Cora and Dan – followed soon after the police. “I know where he is,” he stated seriously. “And I know who took him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props to Tony on his help in the hunt.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! See that tag up there that says "violence towards the end"? Well, this is it. Just as a heads up.

Clint’s eyes opened slowly. His vision was blurry and his head was pounding, throbbing with each beat of his heart. His lungs felt heavy; pulling in enough breath was a chore. He felt tried, muddled.

Slowly his memories came back to him. He’d gone to check on Lucky only to find the dog missing and his collar there in his place. He looked around the yard but didn’t see anything.

“Lucky?” he’d called out quietly.

And suddenly there was a pungent, sweet smell. Rough hands had grabbed him from behind and clamped something over his mouth. His vision had faded. And now it had returned to view the dimly lit space around him.

It was an electric lantern, he finally figured out, that was illuminating the place. The air was thick with the smell of rotting hay and moldy wood. The light from the lantern caught the intricate workings of a spider web over in the corner and for a long time Clint’s gaze stayed on it as he tried to make out what it was.

“You awake?” a voice called from behind him. Clint tossed himself over, scrambling around his still sluggish limbs to get a look at who was speaking. Shadows covered the figure, but the voice was familiar. It was a constant participate in his nightmares. And this place was a setting that had never left his mind. His heart was pounding in his chest as a fresh sensation of fear clawed at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the voice continued, somewhat chopped and not all that clear. Clint knew that sensation; one of his hearing aids had lost battery. The figure took a step forward, allowing the lantern to bring a few of his features to light.

He was taller than Clint had remembered him – two and a half years will do that to an adolescent. His hair was short, cropped extremely close to his head, and his eyes were dull as if the light had long ago been sucked from them. In his hands he had a half-finished cigarette that he brought up to his lips as he asked, “You remember this hell hole, Barton?” He paused as he dragged and blew out smoke, the vapor dancing in the drafty space of the barn’s loft. “You should. It’s where you _murdered_ him.”   

Clint just stared at the guy, trying to piece together what was going on, his failed hearing aid not helping the situation any.

“Look at you. Ain’t even denying it.” He finished his cigarette, flicked it to the floor, and ground it under the heel of his dirty sneaker. He was more visible now that Clint’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Not that the boy needed confirmation on the identity of Jackson Parker’s right-hand man.

Nicotine Howe narrowed his brows and with harsh suddenness, launched out his foot and kicked Clint in the ribs while he was still lying on the ground.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Clint glared up at him, refusing to move.

“I said get up!” Nick kicked him again, this time successfully managing to rock Clint back some, putting more pain on his ribs as he resettled.

Keeping his eyes harsh and hard, Clint got to his feet.

Nick grinned viciously. “Ya know how long I’ve been waiting for this? How much I planned it out while I was rottin’ in Juvie?” He cocked his head to the side, popping his neck. “And now, finally, justice will be served.”

Clint would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been so scared. The lantern didn’t provide enough light to see the edges of the hayloft, and Clint had grown since he’d been there last, so his memory of the space was skewed. And with one hearing aid gone, and throbbing ribs and a headache, the boy was completely lost.            

Nick launched suddenly at Clint, forcing the kid to back up a step. Rotting wood stayed behind him, creaking with the exertion but holding for now.

“Ya know, it took me awhile to find ya, Barton. Turns out that bastard that adopted you se-”

Clint turned his head to check his footing, rendering the rest of the conversation a garbled mess in his deaf ear.

Nick launched again, this time connecting a punch to Clint’s jaw. The kid was knocked back and landed on his ass in soggy straw. He needed to focus, get his mind in gear. Because Nick Howe meant it when he said he’d get justice.

“But then the gods smiled on me, Barton. Dropped him from the fuckin’ sky.” He took a step closer, but Clint scrambled backwards, feeling the ground as he went, horrified he’d find nothing but air. “Your old pal, Trick.”

And suddenly Clint redirected his attention to the conversation he was only partially listening to.

“That’s right, Barton. He sold you out. Hell, couldn’t have been more than five minutes with a bottle to his lips and he was singin’ like a canary.” His vile grin split his face once more. “Or maybe I should say like a hawk.”

Clint felt his chest tighten. Trick had traded his location for booze, had spilled about where he was to the one person who had the means and knowhow to make good on angered revenge.

Nick squatted down to Clint’s level on the ground. “After that all I had to worry about was getting you alone,” a beat, “and keeping the mutt quiet.” He leaned in and the lantern under-lit his features, giving him sharp shadows and shining black eyes. “Good thing chloroform worked for both of ya.”

Clint snarled as he rocketed forward with a punch to Nick’s now level gut, knocking him to the ground. “I swear to god, Nick, if you hurt my dog…”  

But the older boy was laughing even as Clint straddled him and landed a few punches to his face. One lucky blow from the right (the side his hearing aid had gone out on) and Nick had Clint off of him but blood dripping down his nose.

“Now that’s more like it, Barton!” he congratulated, still almost laughing. “That’s the rage I wanted to see.” He wiped at the red coming from his nostril. “Little hot head Barton. Too deaf and dumb to know what’s good for him.” He sniffed, sucking blood back into his nasal cavity. His eyes turned darker and it became clear that Nick was done playing around. “Well, good thing I’m here to stop that.”

He bolted for Clint and the boy barely had time to brace for the impact. He toppled over, landing roughly on his back, smacking his head against the wood, furthering his headache and making his vision swim with pinpoints of black.

For a moment he lost all thought until, from his vantage point on the ground he spotted it.

The hatch.

All he had to do was get to it and then run along the roof to the drainage pipe. Nick might be too heavy to slide down it without the thing pulling from the siding of the barn.

A fist to his jaw brought him back to the situation at hand. Clint continued to struggle under the sheer weight and size of the older boy; he pounded on the wall of the guy’s chest, aiming strikes at his ribs and the soft point below his sternum. But Nick managed to capture one of Clint’s hands, bending the joint backwards with enough pressure to eventually break it.

Clint screamed out in pain; tears brimmed in his eyes. His whole mind was consumed by the hell that was his now broken bones and aching ribs and throbbing head. But he had to hold on. Nick was going to kill him if he didn’t just hold on and get to the hatch.

He closed his eyes and shoved the pain down, recalling all the times he’d done that when his father would loose it. His emotions deepened at the memories and coupled with the fear and the pain and rage he felt now, he focused his furry into a single hit to Nick’s throat.

The older boy stumbled backwards just enough for Clint to escape and make a mad dash for the hatch. But he wasn’t fast enough and Nick snared his legs just as the younger boy had braced his good hand onto the surface of the small door. Clint fell hard onto his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Nick jerked on his captured legs and Clint could feel the slick straw beneath him move as he was pulled closer.

Clint quickly bent his leg at the knee, which earned him a heel into Nick’s chin and enough freedom to try at the hatch again. He made it this time and got it to rattle open, but Nick slid his arms under Clint’s pits and placed his hands behind the kid’s head in a sloppy whole nelson.

“Not this time, Barton,” Nick strained out, tightening his hold. He shifted his weight and Clint went with him, toes just scraping the ground because of their height difference. He could see it now, the edge of the loft, the rickety ladder leading to the floor, twelve feet below. But he also saw something else and for a moment he thought he was imagining it.

An angry bolt of sandy brown fur charged up the ladder, teeth barred and lips pulled back in a snarl.

_Lucky?_

The dog bounded up the steps, not breaking stride as he leapt onto the platform of the hayloft and went after Nick. With a throaty growl, the animal bit down hard on the meat of Nick’s calf. The older boy kicked his leg furiously, but Lucky stayed clamped on and eventually forced Nick to fall backwards, taking Clint with him. But the pain in his leg and the weight of having Clint fall on top of him was enough to loosen his hold. Clint took his chance and bounded for the hatch, shimmying through it and out onto the roof. He glanced back to see Nick still dealing with a pissed off Lucky as he tried to make his way down the ladder, intending to intercept Clint when the kid slid down the drainage pipe. The dog launched at the boy and chomped down on his hand, hanging from it for a moment until his paws connected again with the ladder. But a vicious, pain-fueled kick to the dog’s upper chest – close to the throat – forced the animal to let go and loose his balance, slipping down the rungs of the ladder and onto the floor below where he stayed in a heap.

“Lucky!” Clint cried out, causing Nick to glace up again at the hatch and quickly reevaluate his plan. Clint turned tail as the older boy rushed to the loft, reaching the hatch just as Clint made his way to the edge of the roof.

He clamped onto the pipe with his legs and only good hand, cradling his broken wrist as best as he could, and painfully made his way downward. Nick’s form appeared above him, blocking out the light from the moon. The older boy mimicked Clint’s position on the pipe and began sliding after him.

Clint’s toes touched the ground just as Nick was within arm’s reach and the boy took off running, searching with blurring eyes for shelter, trying desperately to ignore the pain he was in.

An arm wrapped around his neck, stopping him in his tracks and limiting his air intake.

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick ground out. Clint could feel the blood from the hand Lucky had chewed on streaming down his throat. “This ends, Barton.”

Nick threw him to the ground and Clint scampered on his hands and knees, attempting to crawl away on his broken wrist. But he wasn’t fast enough. Nick sent a kick to his ribs and the younger boy topple over, rolling in the dew covered grass. Nick straddled him, pinned his legs down with his weight and his good arm with his injured hand. He hit the kid in the nose and then the ears, knowing he was sensitive there, and then kept on hitting.

Clint was crying by then, bleeding from the wounds on his face. His heart was pounding with the fear of knowing he was going to die. He was screaming because everything hurt and was going blurry.

He blacked out for a moment, pain the only thing on his mind. And when he came to the blood on the dew-soaked grass was visible by the red and blue lights of police cars.

There were two of them, white Impalas with black markings and flashing lights. And then there was shouting. And he could tell his name was one of the words being yelled, but not much more.

And then the heaviness of something, someone, above him was harshly removed and replaced by shaky hands on his shoulders.

“Clint!”

Clint blinked heavily, trying to open his bruised eyes enough to see who was calling his name.

“Oh, Clint.” And the voice’s owner’s trembling hands were under him, scooping him up carefully and clasping him to a familiar chest.

“Phil,” he croaked out.

Phil’s hand moved to the back of Clint’s head, burring his fingers into his son’s hair.

“Oh, my baby,” Coulson breathed. “Oh, Clint, I thought I’d lost you.”

Clint broke down and wept as Phil gently rubbed his back and head. He clutched to the man’s shirt with the hand that didn’t hurt to move and sobbed, “Phil.”

“Shh, it’s okay now. I’m here, Clint. It’s okay now.”

Clint closed his eyes and when he reopened them he was in the back of an ambulance, tubes in his nose and needle in his arm. Phil sat beside him, holding his hand and stroking his hair.

“It’s okay, bud. Go to sleep.”

But there was something important that Clint needed to say. If only his mind could focus. There was something he desperately needed to tell Phil.

He saw the red plastic of the bins and containers above him and it jarred the memory of Nick’s blood spewing from his hand. Blood from a bite.

He tried to sit up, but a hand was on his chest immediately.

“Lie down, honey,” an EMT instructed.

But Clint fought her, stumbling out, “No.” _Not yet._ “No!”

“Clint,” Phil interjected, attempting to get him to return to his previous position. But Clint wouldn’t have it and at Phil’s appearance he murmured, “Lucky.”

“What?”

“Lucky!” He swallowed difficultly. “He’s in the barn.”

Phil held Clint’s gaze for a moment, questioning the lucidity of the boy’s statement, before he gently gripped the kid’s shoulder and turned to the EMT. “Wait here for just a second.”

While the responder was at a loss for words, she shrugged it off and returned to stabilizing Clint. When Phil appeared again, he was carrying a large, tan lump and after some convincing of an officer, and a call to the vet, he managed to get Lucky in a cruiser and the vet to meet them at the hospital.

Clint was rushed into the operating room where they would set his broken wrist, and check his other injuries. Phil wanted to follow, but they shoved him back and in any case he had a cop and a veterinarian to meet up with. The doc took the dog and told him she’d call him when she had news.                        

    When Clint was in recovery a nurse came and got Phil who was now being followed by Steve, Cora, and Dan.

Phil took the seat by Clint’s bed and carefully took his son’s uninjured hand in his, running his thumb over the back of Clint’s palm, carefully avoiding the IV that ran there.

Clint looked horrible: pale skinned, deep bruises, white gauze bandages around wounds that only a short while ago were leaking red. But he was breathing; he was alive. And Phil let out a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of the evening roll off his shoulders.

His son was alive. Beat up. Highly likely to be traumatized. But alive.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And breathe.   
> Everyone's alive! - banged up real good, but alive! 
> 
> So Coulson was wrong about Trick but what has that boy been up to…
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You all are the best on infinite levels! 
> 
> NEXT WEEK IS THE LAST WEEK!  
> But I'd like to take a moment to explain what's going to happen after this story. THERE WILL BE A PART THREE! However, this semester is crazy busy and I don't have time to write. So, Island of Misfit Boys part three will be released this summer. In the meantime, I will be posting two other stories (chapter-by-chapter as this series has been). The first is an OLD Fic that I wrote back sometime between when Avengers was out of theaters but before I read the Fraction series. It's seriously old and not all that compliant with MCU or the comics. But it's a take on Clint's backstory including SHIELD, Budapest, and where the Cube was before Fury had it. Secondly we have a 1940s Clintasha AU that was inspired by Agent Carter but doesn't necessarily take place in that universe. Both stories, Project: Accipiter and Room for Rent (respectively) will be posted after And Then There Were Two with Project being first. So if you are interested, keep an eye out. And to the rest, I will see you this summer.


	19. Chapter 19

Clint peeled open his eyes, worried for a second why everything seemed to be filtered through cotton. But it was just his senses reawakening from the drugged sleep he’d been in. His systems sluggishly returned to him one by one: sight, touch, taste, smell… and hearing, such that it was.

A gentle hand held his a little tighter and he focused his eyes on the source of the comfort.

“Phil?” he croaked out, a smile playing at his lips.

“Hey, bud.”

Clint didn’t hear it, but he could see the familiar phrase clearly enough to know what was said.

Phil held out a cup of water that Clint didn’t see him grab, and helped him drink it. It was cool and smooth and started to chase away the gauzy feeling in his head. He heavily closed his eyes for a moment, letting the last of the drugs work out of his system. And when he opened them again some time must have passed because Steve was there now and Clint felt much better than he did before.

 _Welcome back,_ Phil signed when he caught sight of Clint’s open eyes. Steve turned around when he saw Phil signing and grinned at his now awake and alert foster brother.

 _Better_ he asked.

Clint nodded.

Steve reached over to the stand beside the table and grabbed the silver case that was sitting there. He opened it, a small hiss coming from inside as the dehumidifier function Tony had installed directly into the case was forced out of its continuous cycle. Steve handed Clint the hearing aids one at a time and helped him put them in when the younger boy discovered that his left hand and wrist were bound up in layers of white plaster cast.

“Really? The left one,” Clint moaned, staring at the cast with a deep frown.

Phil huffed a small laugh at Clint’s tone. “Sorry, bud, but it looks like tree climbing season might be a little short this year.”

Clint half-smiled but it was fleeting. His next question came with hesitation and fear ghosting in his eyes. “Lucky?”

“He’s okay,” Phil answered immediately, putting to rest the worry in Clint’s brow. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.” The deeper cuts from the glass where the dog had broken through the window of Nick’s stolen car had already been taken care of by the vet, so Phil didn’t bother mentioning them. But he did add. “A sprained paw.” He pointed to Clint’s wrist. “Actually you two kind of match.”

Clint laughed a little and Phil followed suit. But the boy noticed how the lightness in his voice was strained at the edges from the effort of keeping it that way. He knew something was up.

Phil didn’t want to put Clint through this. But there were police reports that had to be made and they wanted a briefing as close to when he woke up as they could so his mind couldn’t fill in the blanks with information that wasn’t accurate.

“Clint,” he started slowly… but found he couldn’t finish. Instead he wagged his head and asked, “You hungry?”

Clint nodded enthusiastically, suddenly becoming aware of the pain in his stomach – a pain he had learned was not only possible to, but also okay to quell. Phil mumbled something to Steve who left the room with Phil’s order to get something light but wholesome. Clint just hoped he didn’t bring back oatmeal; he hated oatmeal.

After Steve had disappeared, Clint confronted Phil about his behavior with a raised brow and a signed _what’s wrong?_

Phil blew out a breath and rubbed at his temples. “The cops need a report, Clint. They need you to tell them what happened.” He sighed again. “I know it’s not fair to you to make you relive it. And I’m afraid you’ll have to go explain it again in a few months if there’s a trial. But…”

He wasn’t sure how to finish.

Clint was quiet for a while until his voice, tiny and quiet, murmured, “He was going to kill me, Phil. It was in his eyes.”

Phil laid his hand over Clint’s and squeezed it gently. But his eyes were intense and serious as he held his son’s gaze. “You’re safe now.”

Clint let that sink in and after only a small pause nodded in acceptance. Because if anyone could keep him safe, it would be Phil.

…

  The cops had taken his statement and said good-bye to Phil. They said that Nick had signed a confession with “a sick and twisted kind of smile,” so no testimony was needed at the trial that would send him back to Juvie.

Steve had been sent on another food run – no oatmeal this time! – taking Cora and Dan with him, which left Clint and Phil alone. Phil pulled out a deck of cards and started setting up for a game of spades when they heard a knock at the open doorframe.

“Hey, little buddy,” he greeted, sidling in, trying to hide pain in every step. “We gotta stop meetin’ like this or else people are gonna start talkin.’”

Phil narrowed his eyes at the intruder, instinctively squaring his shoulders protectively. Clint refused to look at the guy.

“Aw, c’mon, Hawkeye.” But there was no response from the boy. “I brought’a gift.” Trick waved the Snickers bar, the wrapper crinkling at the action in the followed silence.

“Leave,” Phil said, deceptively calm.

Trick hung his head, sagged his shoulders, and then flinched at some deep pain radiating in his thinning body. He looked up to Clint. “Please, Clint. Just hear me out, ‘kay? I promise. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

Phil was ready to grab the boy by the arm and drag him bodily out of the room, but Clint sighed deeply and, with a nod, relented.

Trick gave Phil a look and said, “Ya know, this is kinda ‘tween me and him.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I won’t hurt him; I promise. You can watch from the winda, if ya want. But I swear I won’t hurt him.” He turned quickly to Clint. “I won’t hurt you.”

And there was far more desperation in his eyes than Clint had ever seen in another living soul’s.

Clint looked at Phil and gave him a small smile. _It’s fine_ , he signed.

_You sure?_

A nod that lacked a couple of degrees of confidence.

Phil exited the room, standing dutifully outside, peering through the window at the conversation he couldn’t hear. There was tension in his back like a coiled spring. And he was ready to pounce, a primal need resting in his muscles to protect his young.

“Ya know, fer a calm guy, he can really have an intimidatin’ look when he wants,” Trick prattled. He set the candy bar down on the stand next to the bed but kept his distance from the edge of the mattress. The light from outside caught the remains of his stringy hair so that it looked like some kind of mangy halo was around his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and finally regarded Clint for the first time. “Look, Clint, I…I’m so sorry. Ya gotta believe me; I didn’t know. Okay? Nick was handin’ me a bottle and then askin’ about you when the thing was ‘bout half gone. And I didn’t want ta tell him nothin’ but before I knew it he… well, he knew a lot. And then he was gone and the bottle was empty and I really didn’t remember none of it.”

He adverted his eyes, focusing on a loose thread in his T-shirt. “I thought about warnin’ ya. But… hell, I don’t know. I kept hopin’ he’d ferget it; ya know what I mean? But he didn’t and then…”

He ran a hand over his face, the blue veins in both clearly visible. “You deserved better, Clint. I shoulda been better.”

“Trick.”

“And now I don’t gotta lot of time to make that right.”

“Trick.”

He looked up then, meeting Clint’s blue-grey gaze, finding the calm and sadness in them, like a lonely ocean in winter.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” he questioned, pain seeping into his sea-colored eyes.

Trick folded his arms around his chest, an action cross between defense and comfort. “’Cause I didn’t want ta admit it. I didn’t want ta admit that my body’d been killin’ itself while I was locked in a cell. And I didn’t notice.” He took a breath that looked more painful than it should. “And then when I got out it was too late.”

There was silence while the emotion hung raw in the air.

“How long?” Clint asked barely above a whisper.

Trick shook his head defiantly. “Nah, Hawkeye, I ain’t gonna do that to you. Okay? As far as you and me’s concerned it’s today. Ah’right? After today I’m just wind. Not ‘live, not…” he sighed like he was fighting back tears, “just wind.”

Drops were threatening Trick Shot’s eyes and he kept rubbing them away with shaky fingers.

“Trick,” Clint tried to address.

But he was shaking his head. “You deserved better, Clint.”

Clint’s shoulders fell but he managed a small, struggling smile. “Trick.”

 The boy finally looked up, once again facing the ocean.

“You were the best I had.”

And the tears broke, tiny silver drops coming from sunken eyes and catching the light wrong on hollowed cheeks. But with his signature grin he replied, “You were the best I had too, Hawkeye.” He rubbed at his tears, apologizing again.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Clint. I’m-”

“Trick.”

He held his gaze finally understanding.

“It’s okay.” The words were emphasized, poignant. Both of them knew that it was forgiveness and comfort and acceptance and prayer. It was the last hope pulled from rubble and bandaged up in all the places there was blood. It was “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll miss you,” and “good-bye,” all rolled into one.

Trick quit fighting the drops that slide down his face and instead ran a hand under his nose, sniffing. “Listen, do me a favor. Don’t think about me.”

Clint narrowed his brows.

“Just… don’t, okay. It’ll be easier.” Another sniff. “But if you do, you know, find yourself remem’brin,’ I want you to picture skippin’ rocks.”

Clint felt the stinging moisture in his own eyes as he nodded.

“You an’ me skippin’ rocks. That’s it. That’s all I want.” He took a step closer, his hands coming from his pockets and hanging loosely by his sides until Clint reached out a hand and Trick eventually took it, pulling himself down for the last time he’d see his friend.

The door opened with a click and Trick straightened up, wiping tears from his face. “Guess my five minutes’re up,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Phil stood in the doorway but made no move to enter.

Trick tossed a wave to Clint telling him once more, “Just wind,” and then he passed Phil with a tired grin before disappearing down the hallway.

Phil sat next to his son, positioning himself so that he was on the edge of the bed but still facing Clint. “I have to confess something,” he started, not meeting the boy’s eye. “I thought it was him. When we found out you were kidnapped, I thought he was the one that took you.”

Clint offered a barely readable grin that looked like it should have been more of a smirk than what was possible at the moment. “Trick can take some getting used to. But he wouldn’t hurt me. Not like that, not like… like Nick.”

And Phil knew Clint was telling the truth. He believed it now, having witnessed the display of redemption that had occurred moments ago.

With a nod and one final sniff from Clint, the boy pointed to the card game still set up and ready to go. “Ready to play?”

Phil smiled and shifted so they could lay down cards easier. They were only a few in when Steve came back with Cora and Dan, announcing as he entered that, “You’re in luck, Clint. They had pizza.”

And it was the first time Clint’s smile had been a full one since that horrible night.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good-bye, Trick.


	20. Chapter 20

The first week after was a blur of questions asked by cops and medical personal and friends and neighbors and just about everybody Phil knew. By the end of it, though, Clint was home with a broken wrist, bruised ribs, two black eyes, a broken nose, and a slight concussion. Unlike most of the other times Phil had forced medicine down this throat, Clint took the painkillers willingly.

The second week after, Cora called to see how everything was going. They had stayed most of the first week to help out in any way they could, but eventually Phil dismissed them, saying that they had other grandchildren to spoil and that, aside from rest, Clint would be fine. And they, as well as Phil, knew that was true. Nick was behind bars and Clint was resilient.

The third week after included Clint’s birthday. It was the first one that Steve was there to celebrate with the other two. He gave Clint a collection of Hawkeye and Flagg comics that he’d drawn and bound together in an extended adventure – like the Robin Hood book Cora had given him – that included a special scene with a fox named Trick Shot. Although Steve never saw it, Clint cried the first time he read it.

The third week also included Father’s Day. The past two had entailed eating out at the diner where Sandy worked and then playing catch in the park. But Steve had insisted that they make breakfast in bed for Phil. The kitchen ended up a little messy because Clint could only do so much one-handed, and Steve had been closely monitoring the eggs. So some juice was spilled and the toast may or may not have spent a few seconds on the ground while Clint stood over it with butter slipping off the knife, mimicking his disappointed mood. Steve helped him clean up and the two took breakfast to Phil who was pleasantly surprised. They all sat on the bed, Steve eating oatmeal and Clint chewing away at Cinnamon Toast Crunch. They kept with tradition and went to the park later to throw around the ball. With Clint left to have to catch with his right hand, the game was pretty even between him and Steve.

By week four, Clint was antsy to climb trees and play fetch with Lucky and take a shower like a normal person. He would poke at the cast on his left wrist in a dissatisfied manner and frown at it like it would fall off if he gave it enough disproval. Steve had drawn Hawkeye with a bandaged wing on the plaster and wrote _get well soon_ above the doodle. But the ink had smeared some and the words looked more like _ge will soor._ The phrase instantly became a shared joke between them. 

His ribs were almost healed, his eyes were no longer bruised, his nose still sported a bandage, and his concussion had seceded in only giving him occasional headaches. He was healing.

But the nightmares were still as crisp and clear as the night the fight with Nick Howe had happened. They twisted the events, bringing in Jackson and a corpse-like Trick Shot. He spent a lot of time at night just staring out the window, convincing himself that it was over, that he was safe.

But one evening the nightmare was too much. He couldn’t get his heart to stop pounding no matter how much he stared around the room and fell into its comforting familiarity.

He climbed out of bed, down the ladder, and made his way to Phil’s room. He gently touched the man’s shoulder, startling him awake. But it only took a few seconds for Phil to come to and focus on his son’s shaking frame. He was clutching Hawkeye to his skinny chest, and his eyes were wide in fear.

 _What’s wrong_ , Phil signed.

 _Can’t sleep. Nightmares,_ Clint replied.

Phil swung his legs over the side of the bed. _You want warm milk?_ he offered.

It took Clint a moment but he nodded.

Phil had him sit on the couch while he poured and heated up some milk in the kitchen. He brought it to the coffee table and left it there, allowing Clint to take it when he wanted. He sat next to his son on the couch, put an arm around his still shaking shoulders, and kissed the top of his head.

They didn’t say anything and after awhile Phil turned on the TV. The volume was turned way down and Closed Captioning was on. Clint kept his eyes trained on the screen, eventually taking the glass of milk and sipping at it while Phil dozed in and out.

Once the glass was empty Clint set it back down and curled up so his head rested on Phil’s leg. Phil stroked the kid’s hair and arm, comforting him as best as he could. He grabbed a blanket from the small pile of them beside the couch and draped it over Clint, tucking Hawkeye under his small arm.

He could tell when Clint went back to sleep by the change in his breathing.

Phil stayed there, letting the flickering images from the TV illuminate his son’s resting form as he continued to rub his hair.

“It’s not fair, what you’ve gone through,” he murmured to the air. “All the hell life’s put you through. You don’t deserve it.” He looked down at Clint sleeping on his thigh. “You’re so strong, Clint. Even when you don’t think it, you are. To have gone through what you have and still…”

He couldn’t put words to it. He watched as the light changed with the new ad on TV, brightening the room in warmer, yellower tones. Cheerios.

“You’re not the only one who has nightmares about that night. I was so scared I’d lost you.” He stilled his hand, resting it on Clint’s head. “But I got you back. A little wear and tear, but I got you back.

“I used to think I was being selfish, wanting you to have been mine from the start.” He resumed stroking Clint’s hair. “I don’t know if I think that anymore. ‘Cause there’re so many kids out there that are going through some of the same stuff you did and I know they don’t deserve it either.”

He sighed and turned his gaze to the TV, not really seeing what was on screen. “There’s an idea I’ve been working on. Just a thought, but I want to run it by you.” He glanced back down at his son asleep on his leg, covered in a soft blanket, safe and sound. “But I’ll do that in the morning.”

He bent down and kissed Clint’s temple. “I love you.”

Tipping his head back, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daww. :)


	21. Chapter 21

Six weeks later

Fifth grade was shaping up to be harder than fourth and it had only been a week. There were more reading assignments and a weekly timed essay that Clint had already decided he’d just take the inevitable C or D on each one. Seriously, who forced kids to write under a time limit? It just seemed cruel.

But thankfully Pepper had once again agreed to tutoring after school, and like clockwork, Clint and Steve made their way down the hall to the classroom reserved for their after-school studies.

“You think the next kid we get will need tutoring too,” Clint asked.

Steve shrugged in response. “Maybe.” But he was admittedly a little distracted by the seven digits neatly written on his palm. Peggy’s number.

“Maybe the next one will be super smart. Like Tony.”

Steve just hummed in response while smiling at the ink on his hand. Clint didn’t mind all that much, though. Steve was smitten and he’d come to accept that. Instead he turned his thoughts to the prospect of having another foster sibling.

Phil had asked him earlier in the summer if he’d be okay with the possibility of fostering Steve permanently and maybe adding to the list, to turn the house into a special needs foster home. He had told the kid to think it over, but Clint was pretty set on his answer the minute he heard the idea. Yes. Because both of them knew that there were others out there in need of a better home. And because Clint knew nothing would change the fact that he was Phil’s son and no one was going to replace him.

So Phil had started filling out the paperwork and began making some changes around the house that would comply with the guidelines. Clint was particularly fond of the idea that the attic might be renovated into a bedroom.

They reached the classroom and greeted Pepper when they went inside. The strawberry blonde smiled back as Steve went to his spot at the other side of the classroom and Clint took his seat next to Pepper.

“We have out first timed essay tomorrow,” Clint explained, a hint of worry in his voice that Steve noticed from across the room.

“You’ll be fine,” Pepper soothed. “Remember, we talked about treating it as a formula, like in math. Five sentences for a paragraph. Five paragraphs for an essay.”

Clint nodded and then nodded again when Pepper suggested they do a practice run. She gave him a topic – favorite color – and then left him to it.

But after only a few minutes, the door opened and in walked someone Clint had never seen before. She was pretty, red hair, green eyes, the lightest dash of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“Sorry I am late,” she mumbled, her voice deeper than Clint would have thought and thick with some kind of accent.

“That’s okay,” Pepper dismissed as the new girl came and sat near but not next to her and Clint. She cast a glance at Clint who was staring back with curiosity in his eyes. She narrowed her brows sharply, forcing the boy to look back down at his paper. “Clint was just getting started on his practice run for the essay tomorrow,” Pepper went on. “Do you want to practice too?”

The girl looked confused for a moment as if translating the words from some kind of code into something remotely understandable, but nodded in the end as a reply.

Pepper handed her a sheet of paper and gave her the same prompt while she set a new timer on her phone. Clint was told to stop writing after fifteen minutes, the new girl after twenty. Pepper went through Clint’s paper first and circled the misspelled words and grammatical errors. She explained them to both of her tutorees so that they’d get extra practice. She then moved on to the new girl’s paper and repeated the process. But then Pepper had the girl read her paper aloud to “practice speaking English as well as writing.”

Clint found that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her as she read. Her accented voice rolled over the words, mushing them together so that he could hardly understand what she was saying with his damaged ears, but she looked nice doing so.

There were a few words that he caught, and he instantly became a fan of the way she wrote. It was poetic and descriptive and bone-deep sad. Something in that hit him like a punch to the gut.

She had chosen red as her favorite color and he thought it suited her well.

Pepper had the girl repeat a few phrases so she could work on pronunciation, but after awhile the newcomer became fed up and frustrated.

“Why you stare?” she snapped at Clint.

Clint’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

“He has trouble hearing,” Pepper thankfully rescued him. “He’s just reading your lips.”

“Oh,” she looked down at her shoes. “Sorry.”

Clint shrugged. “No big deal.”

Pepper’s phone went off again, signaling it was time to go. They packed up their things and Pepper closed the door behind them. Her and Steve went on ahead talking about the new art exhibit up at the gallery down the street.

The new girl put her hand on Clint’s wrist for a moment to get his attention. He turned to her, blue-grey eyes meeting bright green.

“I am sorry,” she apologized again, shoulders slumping a little.

Clint shook his head. “It’s fine.” He tapped his thumb to his chest, fingers splayed out, palm facing his opposing bicep. The sign was practically habitual for him but something entirely new for the red head. She narrowed her eyes at it and he explained, “Sign language,” then added, “it was actually easier to learn than English.”

That earned him a small smile from her and he felt like he could watch her smile all day. “Maybe you teach me, yes?”

“Sure,” he grinned. “First lesson.” He pointed his index finger to his chest, then extended out his index and middle fingers on both hands, like a peace sign but closed, touching, tapping them together so that the first knuckle after the nail on his middle finger of his left hand touched the same knuckle on his right index. Then he spelled his name, slowly carefully, forming each letter for her to see: curved hand for a C, index and thumb for L, pinky out for I, middle and index folded over thumb for N, and then thumb tucked under index for T. “My name is Clint,” he translated for her.

She mimicked the actions until the spelling and then stopped. But she fished a pen from her backpack and scribbled on his hand. N-A-T-A-S-H-A.

He nodded and then fingerspelled her name in the same slow, careful manner he had his. She followed along, quickly picking up the letters – it was a good thing it repeated A a lot – and then signed the sentence from the top.

Speaking as he signed, Clint responded, “Nice to meet you, Natasha.” He did it a few more times and then she repeated it back, signing his name instead.

“Good,” he congratulated, moving his hand from his chin outward. She smiled again and Clint felt something inside his chest tighten. God, he loved that smile.

“I see you tomorrow, yes?” she asked.

He nodded and then waved as she left. He glanced back down at his hand and the scribbled ink on his palm. Fingerspelling her name once more he whispered, “Natasha.”

Maybe fifth grade wouldn’t be so bad after all.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of part two, folks. Now remember: THERE WILL BE A PART THREE!   
> However, this semester is crazy busy and I don't have time to write. So, Island of Misfit Boys part three will be released this summer. In the meantime, I will be posting two other stories (chapter-by-chapter as this series has been). The first is an OLD Fic that I wrote back sometime between when Avengers was out of theaters but before I read the Fraction series. It's seriously old and not all that compliant with MCU or the comics. But it's a take on Clint's backstory including SHIELD, Budapest, and where the Cube was before Fury had it. Secondly we have a 1940s Clintasha AU that was inspired by Agent Carter but doesn't necessarily take place in that universe. Both stories, Project: Accipiter and Room for Rent (respectively) will be posted after And Then There Were Two with Project being first. So if you are interested, keep an eye out. And to the rest, I will see you this summer.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING THIS STORY! IT REALLY MEANS A LOT TO ME! Again, thank you for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. You guys are the best and I'll miss you. See you this summer with part 3. :)   
> \- Zombie_socks


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